d anxiously on his
forehead, and clearing his voice several times, inquired "if he didn't
feel a little better."

"No, father," said George; then taking his hand, he looked anxiously in
his face, and seemed to hesitate a moment. "Father," he began, "you know
that we ought to submit to God."

There was something in his expression at this moment which flashed the
truth into the old man's mind. He dropped his son's hand with an
exclamation of agony, and turning quickly, left the room.

"Father! father!" said Grace, trying to rouse him, as he stood with his
arms folded by the kitchen window.

"Get away, child!" said he, roughly.

"Father, mother says breakfast is ready."

"I don't want any breakfast," said he, turning short about. "Sally, what
are you fixing in that 'ere porringer?"

"O, it's only a little tea for George; 'twill comfort him up, and make
him feel better, poor fellow."

"You won't make him feel better--he's gone," said Uncle Lot, hoarsely.

"O, dear heart, no!" said Aunt Sally.

"Be still a' contradicting me; I won't be contradicted all the time by
nobody. The short of the case is, that George is goin' to _die_ just as
we've got him ready to be a minister and all; and I wish to pity I was
in my grave myself, and so----" said Uncle Lot, as he plunged out of the
door, and shut it after him.

It is well for man that there is one Being who sees the suffering heart
_as it is_, and not as it manifests itself through the repellances of
outward infirmity, and who, perhaps, feels more for the stern and
wayward than for those whose gentler feelings win for them human
sympathy. With all his singularities, there was in the heart of Uncle
Lot a depth of religious sincerity; but there are few characters where
religion does any thing more than struggle with natural defect, and
modify what would else be far worse.

In this hour of trial, all the native obstinacy and pertinacity of the
old man's character rose, and while he felt the necessity of submission,
it seemed impossible to submit; and thus, reproaching himself,
struggling in vain to repress the murmurs of nature, repulsing from him
all external sympathy, his mind was "tempest-tossed, and not comforted."

It was on the still afternoon of the following Sabbath that he was sent
for, in haste, to the chamber of his son. He entered, and saw that the
hour was come. The family were all there. Grace and James, side by side,
bent over the dying one, and his mot