A SUMMONS AND A LOSS.
Mr. Maitland declared Ellen to be ill of a nervous fever which for three
days confined her to her bed, and left her very weak for some little
time, and so nervous that the least thing seemed to startle her; but, as
he said it was no consequence, and she would soon recover, Mrs. Hamilton
adopted his advice, took no notice of it, and only endeavored to make
her niece's daily routine as varied in employment, though regular in
hours and undisturbed in quiet, as she could. Perhaps she would have
felt more anxious, and discovered something not quite usual in Ellen's
manner, if her thoughts had not been painfully pre-occupied. About a
week after their excursion she entered the library earlier than usual,
and found her husband intently engaged with some dispatches just
received. She saw he was more than ordinarily disturbed, and hesitated a
moment whether to address him; but he was seldom so engrossed as to be
unconscious of the presence of his wife.
"I am really glad you are here at this moment, Emmeline, for I actually
was weak enough to shrink from seeking you with unpleasant news. Letters
from Feroe have at length arrived, and my personal presence is so
imperatively needed, that I am self-reproached at not going before; the
long silence ought to have convinced me that all was not as it should
be."
"But what has occurred, Arthur? I had no idea you contemplated the
necessity of going," replied his wife very quietly, as she sat down
close by him; but the fiat of separation, the thoughts of a perilous
voyage, a visit to an almost desolate island, and the impossibility of
receiving regular letters, so crowded upon her all at once, that it was
a strong effort to speak at all.
"No, dearest; for what was the use of tormenting you with disagreeable
anticipations, when there really might have been no foundation for them.
The last accounts from Samboe, were, as you know, received nearly two
years ago, telling me that Frederic Wilson was dead, but that his son
had been received as his successor in the ministry, and as civil
guardian of the island, with if possible, a still greater degree of
popularity than his predecessors, from his having been educated in
Denmark. His parents had lived on straitened means to give him superior
advantages, which, as it proves, he would have been much better without.
The vices he has acquired have far outrun the advantages. His example,
and that of a band of idle, irregular spirits who have joined him, has
not only scandalized the simple people but disturbed their homesteads,
brought contention and misery, and in some cases, bloodshed; so that in
point of social and domestic position, I fear they have sunk lower than
when my grandfather first sought the island. The mother of this unhappy
young man has, naturally, perhaps, but weakly, shrunk from informing
against him; but her brother, the clergyman of Osteroe, has at length
taken upon himself to do so, clearly stating that nothing but personal
interference and some months' residence among them will effect a
reformation; and that the ruin is more to be regretted, as the little
island has been for more than half a century the admiration not only of
its immediate neighbors, but of all who have chanced to harbor off its
coast. He states, too, that if properly directed and not exposed to the
contagion of large cities, as his brother has been, poor Wilson's
younger son, now a boy of eleven, may become us worthy and judicious a
pastor as his father and grandfather, and so keep the office in his
family, as my grandfather was so desirous of doing. The question is, how
is this boy to be educated on the island, and whom can I find to take
the ministry meanwhile."
"And must your own residence there be very long?" inquired Mrs.
Hamilton, still in that quiet tone, but her lip quivered.
"It depends entirely on whom I can get to accompany me, dearest. I must
set Mr. Howard and Morton to work to find me some simple-minded,
single-hearted individual, who will regard this undertaking in the same
missionary spirit as the elder Wilson did. If I am happy enough to
succeed in this, I hope a year, or somewhat less, will be the farthest
limit of our separation."
"A year! a whole long year--dearest Arthur, must it be so very, very
long?"
"Who tried to persuade Ellen, a fortnight ago, that a year, even two
years, would pass so very quickly?" replied Mr. Hamilton trying to
smile, and folding his arm fondly round his wife, he kissed the cheek
which had become pale from the effort to restrain her feelings. "It is
indeed an unexpected and a painful trial, and, as is generally the case
with our rebellious spirits, I feel as if it would have been better
borne at any other period than the present. We had so portioned out this
year, had so anticipated gratifying Caroline by introducing her to the
so long and so eagerly anticipated pleasures of London next January,
that I can not bear to think of her disappointment."
"And our boys, too, they say it is so strange to be without their
father, even in college term; what will it be when they come home for
the long vacation, to which we have all so looked forward? But this is
all weakness, my own dear husband; forgive me, I am only rendering your
duty more difficult," she added, raising her head from his shoulder, and
smiling cheerfully, even while the tears glistened in her eyes. "I must
try and practice my own lesson, and believe the term of separation will
really pass quickly, interminable as it now seems. We have been so
blessed, so guarded from the bitter pang of even partial separation for
twenty years, that how dare I murmur now the trial has come? It is God's
pleasure, dearest Arthur, though it seems like the work of man, and as
HIS we can endure it."
"Bless you, my beloved! you have indeed put a new spirit in me by those
words," replied her husband, with a fondness, the more intense from the
actual veneration that so largely mingled with it. "And bitter
disappointment as it is to me to be from home when our sons return, it
is better so, perhaps, for their company will wile away at least nearly
three months of my absence."
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton remained some hours together that morning in
earnest conversation. All of individual regret was conquered for the
sake of the other: its expression, at least, not its feeling; but they
understood each other too well, too fondly, to need words or complaints
to prove to either how intensely painful was the very thought of
separation. To elude the performance of a duty which many persons,
unable to enter into the hope of effecting good, would, no doubt,
pronounce Quixotic--for what could the poor inhabitants of Samboe be to
him?--never entered either Mr. or Mrs. Hamilton's mind. He was not one
to neglect his immediate duties for distant ones; but believed and acted
on the belief, that both could be united. His own large estate, its
various farms, parishes, and villages, were so admirably ordered, that
he could leave it without the smallest scruple in the hands of his wife
and steward. Though interested in, and actually assisting in the
political movements of his country, he was still, as from his youth he
had firmly resolved to be, a free, independent Englishman; bound to no
party, but respected by all; retaining his own principles unshaken as a
rock, though often and often his integrity had been tried by court
bribes and dazzling offers. And yet, rare blending with such individual
feelings, Arthur Hamilton looked with candor and kindness on the conduct
and principles of others, however they might differ from his own, and
found excuses for them, which none others could. That he should give up
all the comforts, the luxuries, the delights of his peculiarly happy
home, to encounter several months' sojourn in a bleak, half-civilized
island, only in the hope of restoring and insuring moral and religious
improvement to a small colony of human beings, whose sole claim upon him
was, that they were immortal as himself, and that they had done a
kindness to his grandfather more than half a century back, was likely
to, and no doubt did, excite the utmost astonishment in very many
circles; but not a sneer, not a word seeming to whisper good should be
done at home before sought abroad, could find a moment's resting-place
near Arthur Hamilton's name.
For half an hour after Mrs. Hamilton quitted her husband she remained
alone, and when she rejoined her family, though she might have been a
shade paler than her wont, she was as cheerful in conversation and
earnest in manner as usual. That evening Mr. Hamilton informed his
children and Miss Harcourt of his intended departure, and consequent
compelled change of plan. Emmeline's burst of sorrow was violent and
uncontrolled. Caroline looked for a minute quite bewildered, and then
hastening to her father threw one arm round his neck, exclaiming, in a
voice of the most affectionate sincerity, "Dear papa, what shall we do
without you for such a long time?"
"My dear child! I thank you for such an affectionate thought; believe
me, the idea of your wishes being postponed has pained me as much as any
thing else in this unpleasant duty."
"My wishes postponed, papa--what do you mean?"
"Have you quite forgotten our intended plans for next January, my love?
My absence must alter them."
For a moment an expression of bitter disappointment clouded Caroline's
open countenance.
"Indeed, papa, I had forgotten it; I only thought of your going away for
so many months. It is a great disappointment, I own, and I dare say I
shall feel it still more when January comes; but I am sure parting from
you must be a still greater trial to mamma, than any such disappointment
ought to be to me; and, indeed, I will try and bear it as
uncomplainingly and cheerfully as she does."
Her father almost involuntarily drew her to his heart, and kissed her
two or three times, without speaking; and Caroline was very glad he did
so, for when she looked up again, the tears that would come at the first
thought of her disappointment were bravely sent back again; and she
tried to cheer Emmeline, by assuring her she never could be like her
favorite heroines of romance, if she behaved so very much like a child;
taking the opportunity when they retired for the night, to say more
seriously--
"Dear Emmeline, do try and be as lively as you always are. I am sure
poor mamma is suffering very much at the idea of papa's leaving us,
though she will not let us see that she does, and if you give way so, it
will make her more uncomfortable still."
Emmeline promised to try; but her disposition, quite as susceptible to
sorrow as to joy, and not nearly as firm as her sister's, rendered the
promise very difficult to fulfill. It was her first sorrow; and Mrs.
Hamilton watched her with some anxiety, half fearful that she had been
wrong to shield her so carefully from any thing like grief, if, when it
came, she should prove unequal to its firm and uncomplaining endurance.
Ellen had been out of the room when Mr. Hamilton had first spoken; and
engaged in soothing Emmeline; when she re-entered and the news was
communicated to her, he did not observe any thing particular in mode of
receiving it. But Mrs. Hamilton was so struck with "the expression of
her countenance, which, as she tried somewhat incoherently to utter
regrets, took the place of its usual calm, that she looked at her
several minutes in bewilderment; but it passed again, so completely,
that she was angry with herself for fancying any thing uncommon.
Caroline, however, had remarked it too, and she could not help observing
to Miss Harcourt, the first time they were alone--
"You will say I am always fancying something extraordinary, Miss
Harcourt; but Ellen certainly did look pleased last night, when mamma
told her of papa's intended departure."
"The expression must have been something extraordinary for you to remark
it at all," replied Miss Harcourt; "nobody but Mrs. Hamilton, whose
penetration is out of the common, can ever read any thing on Ellen's
face."
"And it was for that very reason I looked again; and mamma noticed it
too, and was surprised, though she did not say any thing. If she really
be pleased, she is most ungrateful, and all her profession of feeling
mamma and papa's constant kindness sheer deceit. I never shall
understand Ellen, I believe; but I do hope mamma will never discover
that she is not exactly that which her affection believes her."
"Pray do not talk so, my dear Caroline, or I shall be tempted to confess
that you are giving words to my own feelings. Her conduct with regard to
the disappearance of her allowance, the wholly unsatisfactory account of
its expenditure, even every month, for she seems to me to mention many
things she has never had, banish every hopeful feeling, and I dread more
than I can tell you, the very thing you have expressed. But all this is
very wrong; we have relieved each other by a mutual acknowledgment, and
now let us never revert, even in thought, if possible, to the subject."
Caroline willingly acquiesced, for it was far from agreeable. Mr.
Hamilton's preparations, meanwhile, rapidly progressed. He imparted his
wishes for a companion willing to remain in the island, till young
Wilson should be prepared for the ministry, both to Mr. Howard and Mr.
Morton (the latter still remained in his desolate parish, still more
isolated in feeling from the loss of both his parents, and Percy's
absence), and both, especially Morton, gave him every hope of obtaining
the character he wanted. His next inquiry was at Dartmouth for a strong,
well-built vessel, fitted to encounter the stormy seas between Scotland
and Feroe, determining to do all in his power to provide some means of
regular communication between himself and the beloved inmates of his
home. Wick, in Caithness, was the farthest post town to which letters
could be addressed. Every ten days or fortnight communications were to
be sent there, and the Siren, after conveying him to Feroe, was
regularly to ply between Samboe and Wick, bringing from the latter place
to Mr. Hamilton the various letters that had accumulated there, should
unfavorable winds have lengthened the voyage, and forwarding his through
that post to his home. By this means, he hoped to hear and be heard of
regularly; an intense relief, if it really could be so accomplished, to
his wife.
As soon as a ship, a competent captain, mate, and crew were obtained,
Mr. Hamilton set off for Oxford and London, wishing in the latter place
to see his friend Grahame, and in the former to pass a few days with his
sons, who, knowing nothing of his summons, received him with unbounded
delight. Their regret, when they heard the cause of his visit, was as
great as their joy had been. Percy, in a desperate fit of impatience,
wished the little island and all its concerns at the bottom of the sea,
the best place for such unruly, disagreeable people; and he was only
sobered when his father put before him that, though it must be a very
heightened individual disappointment, it was the greatest comfort to
him, to think that they would both be with their mother and sisters the
first few months of his absence. Percy instantly altered his tone.
"You are quite right, my dear father; I was very selfish not to think of
it. Trust me for making my dearest mother as cheerful and as happy as I
can. You don't know what a guardian angel the thought of her love has
been to me in temptation; and as for Bertie, if ever I thought he was
studying himself ill, and not taking the care of himself he ought, or
wanted him to take exercise and recreation, when he thought me a great
bore, the word mother, made him yield at once."
And Herbert's kindling eye and cheek bore testimony to the truth of his
brother's words. His only feeling and exclamation had been, if he might
but accompany his father, and save him all the trouble he could;
allowing, however, its impossibility, when the circumstances of his
still delicate health and the necessity for uninterrupted study, were
placed before him.
That visit to Oxford was a proud one for Mr. Hamilton. His sons held
that place in the estimation of the professors, superiors, and their
fellow-collegians, which their early influences had promised, and which,
as the sons of Arthur Hamilton, seemed naturally their own. Percy could
so combine firmness in principle, unbending rectitude in conduct, with
such a spirit of fun and enjoyment, as rendered him the prime mover of
all sports at Oxford, as he had been at Oakwood; and Herbert, though so
gentle and retiring as (until Percy's spirit was roused to shield him),
gained him many nick-names and many petty annoyances, silently and
insensibly won his way, and so bore with the thoughtless, the mirthful,
and even the faulty, as at length to gain him the privilege of being
allowed to do just as he liked, and win by his extraordinary talents the
admiration and love of all the professors with whom he was thrown.
Morton had promised to introduce a person to Mr. Hamilton on his return
from Oxford, who, if approved of, would be his willing, his eager
assistant, and gladly remain in the island, attending to all that was
required in its superintendence, and in the education of young Wilson,
till he was old enough and properly fitted to take his father's place.
Great, then, was Mr. Hamilton's disappointment, when Morton entered his
library according to appointment, but quite alone. Still greater was his
astonishment, when he found it was Morton himself, thus eagerly desirous
to become his companion, urging his wishes, his motives, Mr. Howard's
sanction, with such earnestness, such single-mindedness of purpose, that
every objection which, for Morton's own sake, Mr. Hamilton so
strenuously brought forward, was overruled; and after a lengthened
interview, matters were arranged to the entire satisfaction of both
parties. The idea of the companionship and aid of such a friend as
Morton bringing as great a relief to both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, as
their acquiescence filled the whole heart of the young missionary with
the most unbounded gratitude and joy. He suggested many little things,
which, in the agitation of his hasty summons, had escaped his friends,
and his whole being seemed transformed from despondency and listlessness
to energy and hope. Engrossed as he was, Mr. Hamilton's usual thought
for others had not deserted him, and he remarked that one of his
household, Robert Langford, so often mentioned, appeared to linger in
the library after morning and evening service, as if anxious to speak to
him, but failing in courage so to do. He thought, too, that the young
man seemed quite altered, dispirited, gloomy, almost wretched at times,
instead of the mirthful, happy being he had been before. Determining to
give him an opportunity of speaking before his departure, if he wished
it, Mr. Hamilton summoned him to arrange, write a list, and pack some
books, which Morton had selected to take with him. For some time Robert
pursued his work in persevering silence, but at length fixed his eyes on
his master with such beseeching earnestness, that Mr. Hamilton inquired
the matter at once. It was some time before the young man could
sufficiently compose himself to speak with any coherency, but at last
Mr. Hamilton gathered the following details.
About five weeks previous (the first day of June) he had been
introduced, as he had very often before been, by his master, with
certain papers and law articles to convey to Plymouth, and with a pocket
book containing thirty pounds, in two ten and two five pound notes,
which he had orders to leave at some poor though respectable families,
whom Mr. Hamilton was in the habit of occasionally assisting, though
they were out of his own domains. The morning he was to have started on
this expedition a cousin, whom he had always regarded as a brother, came
unexpectedly to see him. He had just arrived at Plymouth from a four
years' residence with his regiment in Ireland: and Robert's glee was so
great as to require reiterated commands from the steward to take care of
the papers, and not stay at his mother's cottage, where he was to take
his cousin, later than the afternoon. He lingered so long before he set
off from Oakwood, that he gathered up all the papers as quickly as he
could, forgot his principal charge, so far at least as not to look to
the secure fastening of the pocket-book, and hastened with his cousin
through the brushwood and glade we have before mentioned, to his
mother's cottage. It was very hot, and the young men, heated and in
eager conversation, took off their coats, threw them loosely over their
arms, and proceeded on their walk without them, much too engrossed with
each other to be aware that, as they carried their coats, it was the
easiest and most natural thing possible for all the smaller contents of
their pockets to fall out, and if not missed directly, from the winding
and rugged wood path, not likely to be found again.
A draught of cider and half an hour's rest at Mrs. Langford's cottage
sufficiently revived Robert to resume his coat; he satisfied himself
that his packet of papers was secure, and, as he imagined from the feel
of another pocket, the pocket-book also.
What, then, was his consternation, when he approached the first house at
which he was to leave ten pounds of the money, about twenty miles from
Oakwood to discover that the pocket book was gone! and that which, by
its feel, he believed to have been it, an old card-case, that his young
master Percy had laughingly thrown at him one day after failing in his
endeavor to emblazon it, the sticky materials he had used causing it to
adhere to whatever it touched, and so preserving it in Robert's pocket,
when almost all the other things had fallen out. He racked his memory in
vain as to what could have become of it, convinced that he had not left
it at Oakwood, as he first sincerely wished that he had. Two or three
other things had also disappeared, and it suddenly flashed upon him,
that when carrying his coat over his arm they must have fallen out. He
cursed his thoughtlessness again and again, and would have retraced his
steps immediately, but the papers with which he was intrusted had to be
delivered at Plymouth by a certain hour, and he could not do it. The
intense heat of the day gave place in the evening to a tremendous storm
of thunder and lightning, wind and very heavy rain, which last continued
unabated through the night. He returned home, or rather to his mother's
cottage, the next day, in a state of mind little removed from
distraction; searching the path he had traversed with his cousin in
every direction, but only succeeded in finding some worthless trifles,
and the pocket-book itself but open and empty; but at a little distance
from it one five pound note. In an instant he remembered that in his
hurry he had failed to see to its proper fastening: if he had, all would
have been right, for the wind and rain would hardly have had power to
open it, and disperse its contents. Hour after hour he passed in the
vain search for the remainder; the storm had rendered the path more
intricate; the ground was slimy, and quantities of dried sticks and
broken branches and leaves almost covered it. He told his tale to his
mother in the deepest distress; what was he to do? She advised him to
tell the steward the whole story, and to request him to keep back the
sum she was in the habit of receiving quarterly, till the whole amount
could be repaid. Robert obeyed her, but with most painful reluctance,
though even then he did not imagine all the misery his carelessness
would entail upon him. Morris, as was natural, was exceedingly
displeased, and not only reproved him very severely, but let fall
suspicions as to the truth of his story: he knew nothing of his cousin,
he said, and could not say what company he might have been led into. If
the notes had fallen out of his pocket during his walk, they must be
found; it was all nonsense that the wind and rain could so have
scattered and annihilated them, as to remove all trace of them. He would
not say any thing to his master, because it would only annoy him, and
the charities he would give himself, not from Mrs. Langford's allowance,
but from Robert's own wages, which he should certainly stop till the
whole sum was paid; he should take care how he intrusted such a
responsible office to him again.
Robert was at first indignant, and violent in his protestations of the
truth of his story; but as it got wind in the servants' hall as he found
himself suspected and shunned by almost all, as days merged into weeks,
and there was no trace of the notes, and Morris and Ellis both united in
declaring that, as no strangers passed through that part of the park, if
found they must have been heard of, the young man sunk into a state of
the most gloomy despondency, longing to tell his kind master the whole
tale, and yet, naturally enough, shrinking from the dread of his
suspicion of his honesty, as more terrible than all the rest.
But Mr. Hamilton did not suspect him, and so assured him of his firm
belief in his truth and innocence, that it was with great difficulty
poor Robert refrained from throwing himself at his feet to pour forth
his gratitude. He was so severely punished from his heedlessness, that
his master would not say much about it, and soon after dismissing him,
summoned Morris, and talked with him some time on the subject, declaring
he would as soon suspect his own son of dishonesty as the boy who had
grown up under his own eye from infancy, and the son of such a mother.
It was very distressing for Mrs. Langford certainly, the old steward
allowed, and she looked sad enough; but it was no use, he had tried hard
enough to prevent his suspicions, but they would come. None but the
servants and the woodmen and gardeners went that path, and if the notes
had been dropped there, they must have been found; and it was a very
hard thing for the other servants, as none knew who might be suspected
of appropriating them. His master was much too kind in his opinions, but
he must forgive him if he continued to keep a sharp look out after the
young man. Morris was very old, and somewhat opinionated; so all that
his master could succeed in, was to insist that he should only keep back
half of Robert's wages, till the sum was paid.
"Take away the whole, and if he have been unfortunately led into
temptation, which I do not believe he has, you expose him to it again,"
was his judicious command. "It is all right he should return it, even
though lost only by carelessness; but I will not have him put to such
straits for want of a little money, as must be the case if you deprive
him of all his wages; and now, my good Morris, if you can not in
conscience repeat my firm opinion of this lad's innocence to the
servants, I must do it myself."
And that very evening after prayers, when the whole household were
assembled in the library, Mr. Hamilton addressed them simply and
briefly, mentioning that Robert Langford had himself told his tale to
him, and that it was his own opinion, and that of their mistress, that
he did not deserve the suspicions attached to him, and that his
fellow-servants would all be acting more charitably and religiously if
they believed his story, until they had had some strong proof to the
contrary; he could not of course, interfere with private opinion; he
could only tell them his own and their lady's. He acknowledged it was a
very unpleasant occurrence, but he begged them all to dismiss the idea
that suspicion could be attached to either of them; he felt too
convinced that had any one of his household chanced to find the missing
notes, they would at once have mentioned it to the steward or
housekeeper, more especially, since Robert's loss had been known among
them only a few days after it had occurred. Appropriation, he need not
tell them, in such a case was theft, and of that sin, he was perfectly
certain, not one present would be guilty. He allowed that it would be
much more satisfactory to have the tangible proof of Robert's innocence
by discovering some trace of them but it was not unlikely the heavy wind
and rain had destroyed the thin material of the notes or borne them into
the brambly brushwood, where it was scarcely possible they could be
found.
If the attention of Mrs. Hamilton, her daughters, and Miss Harcourt had
not been naturally riveted on Mr. Hamilton's address, and its effect on
the servants, especially Robert, whose emotion was almost overpowering,
they must have remarked that Ellen had shrunk into the shade of the
heavy curtains falling by one of the windows, and had unconsciously
grasped the oaken back of one of the massive chairs; lips, cheek, and
brow, white and rigid as sculptured marble. An almost supernatural
effort alone enabled her to master the crushing agony, sending the blood
up to her cheeks with such returning violence, that when she wished her
aunt and uncle good night, she might have been thought more flushed than
pale; but it passed unnoticed Mrs. Hamilton too much annoyed on Mrs.
Langford's account, to think at that moment of any thing but how she
could best set the poor mother's heart at rest. It was very evident that
though some of the domestics after their master's address came up to
Robert, shook hands with him and begged his pardon, the greater number
still sided with Morris, and retained their own less favorable opinion,
and she could well imagine what Mrs. Langford's sufferings must be. It
only wanted five days to that fixed for Mr. Hamilton's departure, wind
permitting; and there were so many things to think of and do for him,
that his family could have little thought of any thing else; but Mrs.
Hamilton, assured her husband she would leave no means untried to prove
Robert's innocence.
For nearly an hour that same night did Ellen, after her attendant had
left her, sit crouched by the side of her bed as if some bolt had struck
and withered her as she sat. One word alone sounded and resounded in her
ears; she had known it, pronounced it to be such to herself numbers of
times, but it had never mocked and maddened her as when spoken in her
uncle's voice, and in his deepest, most expressive tone--"theft!" And
she was the guilty one--and she must see the innocent bearing the
penalty of her crime, suspicion, dislike, avoidance, for she dared not
breathe the truth. Again came the wild, almost desperate, resolve to
seek Mrs. Hamilton that very moment, avow herself the criminal, implore
her to take back every trinket belonging to her, to replace it, and do
with her what she would. But if she did confess, and so draw attention
to her, how could she keep her brother's secret? Could she have firmness
to bear all, rather than betray it? What proof of her inward
wretchedness and remorse could there be in the mere confession of
appropriation, when the use to which she had applied that money and all
concerning it, even to the day it was found, must be withheld, lest it
should in any way be connected with her letter to her brother. She must
be silent; and the only prayer which, night and morning, ay, almost
every hour, rose, from that young heart, was for death, ere it was too
late for God's forgiveness.