windows, and tapped a welcome on the diamond panes. He had,
however, no ear for this salute. Nor did he eye with delight the
flowering geraniums that clustered so thickly in the pots filling
the sills. Nor did he even care for the great bars of sunlight
that fell in golden splendour across his bed, causing the old dog
to wink, and sneeze, and smile beneath their mellowing beams. No,
these were nothing to him; indeed, they never had been--he had
lived for years oblivious alike to tree and flower and sun.

On the walls of his bedroom hung a number of rude prints, chief
among which was a hideous representation of Jesus Christ driving
the money-changers out of the Temple--the man of gentleness being
represented as a stern, passionless Master, the strength of whose
person was thrown into a relentless face, and a mighty arm
wielding a massive whip. At this figure he often glanced, and now
and again a look of recognition seemed to steal over his features,
as though the essence of his religion was embodied in that act--a
gospel anodyne for a suffering soul.

By the side of his bed was a small table on which lay two books,
the one bound in morocco, the other in leather--a Bible and a
ledger--his sole literature during the weary hours of sickness,
and wittily denominated by his wife, 'the books of mercy and of
judgment.' Indeed, she often told him that he knew 'a deal more o'
th' book o' judgment than he did o' t'other'; and it was even so.

Moses languidly took up his Bible. It was a veritable study in
black and white, many passages being underscored, and many
remaining as unsoiled as though seldom read. Indeed, the Gospels
seldom had been read, while the imprecatory Psalms and the latter