was lying, and gent the
blood gushing from the wound, burst from Spikeman, as he heard the
answer.

"Yea," said good and tender-hearted Mr. Eliot, let our brother anchor
his mind on the promises which are very comfortable--For ye have not
received the spirit of bondage again to fear, but ye have received the
spirit of adoption whereby we cry, Abba, Father.' For I reckon that
the sufferings of the present time are not worthy to be compared with
the glory which shall be revealed in us. 'Blessed are the dead who
die in the Lord, and their works do follow them.'"

"Works?" interrupted Spikeman. "Who speaks of works? They are filthy
rags."

"They are indeed but filthy rags," said Mr. Eliot, "to them who rely
upon them for salvation; yet are they not unpleasing as being the
fruits of saving faith."

"I will not hear of works," said Spikeman. "Moreover, whom he did
predestinate--them"--a sudden pang prevented the conclusion of the
sentence, but it was finished by Mr. Eliot.

"He also called; and whom he called, them he also justified; and whom
he justified, them he also glorified."

A silence followed, which was interrupted only by the sobs of Dame
Spikeman, until the wounded man inquired:

"How long shall I live?"

"It may be two hours; it may be only one," answered the physician.

"A short time." murmured the Assistant, "My soul doth travail with
anguish," he said, fixing his burning eyes on Mr. Eliot.

"O, my brother!" exclaimed the divine, "the precious blood of Christ
cleanseth from all sins, though they be as crimson. Faint not now,
when thou art about to cross the river of Jordan, but think upon thy
Redeemer."

"I strive," said Spikeman, "but there are thoughts which--which rise
up, as a mist, between me and him."

"O, cleanse thy bosom of this perilous stuff," said Winthrop. "If
there be a sin which persecutes thee, confess it and repent."

"Is that the voice of the Governor?" asked Spikeman, who seemed to
have forgotten his entrance. "Repentance! Repentance! it is too late."

Those around the couch looked at one another with dismay.

"Our dear brother," said Mr. Eliot, "of what specially wouldst thou
repent? Believe me--it is never too late to trust God's mercies. Think
of the penitent thief upon the Cross."

"Do you dare to call me a thief?" said Spikeman, hoarsely. "Ah!" he
added, "how I talk! These are strange feelings. What I have to do must
be done quickly. Call Eveline Dunning."

"Who is i