le out of him at
first, for he was very shy and reserved, and seemed terribly annoyed
when I read a chapter and had a prayer with him the first visit, and he
said some very sharp things against religion and the Bible. However, I
persevered, and he got a little softened, especially when I brought him
a little help and a few comforts from some Christian friends who had got
interested in him. He has always avoided speaking about himself and his
past history, and I suspect that he is hiding from the police. However,
I have nothing to do with that, and am truly sorry for him. This
morning I called and found him much worse. I asked him if he would like
me to get him into the hospital, but he would not hear of it. Then I
asked him if I could do anything more for him. He did not speak for
some time, and then he said, `Yes. Write a few lines for me to Mr Amos
Huntingdon'--he gave me your address--`and just tell him how I am. He
will know me by the name of Orlando Vivian.' `Shall I say anything
more?' I asked. `No,' he said; `please, just say that, and leave it.'
So, dear sir, I have followed the poor gentleman's wishes. I call him a
gentleman, for I think he must have been a gentleman once. Poor man! I
fear he is dying, and cannot be here very long. At the same time, I
feel it to be my duty to tell you that there is a bad fever raging in
the town, and the place where he lives is anything but clean and
healthy. And now I have only to ask your pardon for troubling you with
this long letter, and to say that I shall be very happy to do anything
for your friend, if such he is, that lies in my power, or to meet you at
the Collingford station, should you think it right to come down and see
him.--I am, dear sir, respectfully yours, James Harris."

It hardly need be said that this letter moved Amos deeply. What could
be done? What was his duty? What was his sister's duty? He felt in
perplexity, so he took the trouble and laid it out before Him who bids
us cast on him every care. Then he betook himself to his aunt's room
and read the letter to her. "What shall I do, dear aunt?" he asked.

"The question, I think, rather is," replied Miss Huntingdon, "What ought
not your sister to do? Clearly, to my mind, it is her duty to go to her
poor dying husband, forgive all if he shows himself really penitent, and
be with him to the last."

"Such is my conviction too," said Amos sadly; "but I fear that Julia
will not see her