again:

"They would have come if they had known. They would not have let me
_die_ alone. I don't think _she_ would have done that. I wonder where
she is? Nobody has missed me--that is all. I must not mind."

Growing weaker, he thought less and prayed more. He prayed, at last,
almost all his time. When he did not pray, he slept. When he could not
sleep, he prayed. He addressed God with that sublime familiarity of
his, which fell from his lips with no more irreverence than the kiss
of a child falling upon its mother's hand or neck.

The murderer, the felon, the outcast, talked with the Almighty
Holiness, as a man talketh with his friends. The deserted, distrusted,
dying creature believed himself to be trusted by the Being who had
bestowed on him the awful gift of life.

"Lord," he said, softly, "I guess I can bear it. I'd like to see
somebody--but I'll make out to get along.... Lord! I'm pretty weak. I
know all about these spasms. You get delirious next thing, you know.
Then you either get better or you never do. It'll be decided by Sunday
night. Lord! Dear Lord!" he added, with a tender pause, "don't _You_
forget me! I hope _You'll_ miss me enough to hunt me up."

It grew dark early on Saturday night. The sun sank under a thin,
deceptive web of cloud. The shadow beneath the palmetto grew long over
Scip's fresh grave. The stars were dim and few. The wind rose, and the
lights in the city, where watchers wept over their sick, trembled on
the frail breeze, and seemed to be multiplied, like objects seen
through tears.

Through the wooden shutter, Zerviah could see the lights, and the
lonely palmetto, and the grave. He could see those few cold stars.

He thought, while his thoughts remained his own, most tenderly and
longingly of those for whom he had given his life. He remembered how
many keen cares of their own they had to carry, how many ghastly deeds
and sights to do and bear. It was not strange that he should not be
missed. Who was he?--a disgraced, unfamiliar man, among their kin and
neighborhood. Why should they think of him? he said.

Yet he was glad that he could remember them. He wished his living or
his dying could help them any. Things that his patients had said to
him, looks that healing eyes had turned on him, little signs of human
love and leaning, came back to him as he lay there, and stood around
his bed, like people, in the dark hut.

"_They loved me_," he said: "Lord, as true as I'm alive, they did