At noon it became evident that but a short time
remained. A. C. Riddle sat upon one side of the couch
and Richard Selman at the other, the first rubbing the
injured portion of the wounded right arm, while the other
moistened the parched lips with constant applications of
cold water. By Mr. Riddle sat the weeping wife, soon
to be a widow, and about the apartment were gathered
the children. The last hour of the citizen was one which
will never be forgotten by those who watched his last
moments. Labored was the breathing and every breath
was a gasp and a groan. His children stood by the couch
and saw the pain-racked form, and his wife held his hand
and prayed to the God of all people to spare him to her
for a longer time. Prayers were of no avail and tears
did not soothe the pain. He was in agony, and
accompanied with that agony was a desire to say something.
He relapsed into slumber at times and would at intervals
awake. His eyes would roll about the gathered friends
and relatives, and an unintelligible sound would escape.
There seemed to be no control of the tongue except at
times he could utter the words, "Wife" and "Molly."
The silence in the sick room was disturbed by the gasp
of the dying man and the weeping of his family.

The hour of 2 o'clock came and the breath was shorter
and harder. Little Nellie, 2 years of age, was brought
to the bedside, and looking at her father in childish
innocence smiled, and cried, "Mama, is that my papa?"
Did papa hear those words? It is to be hoped he did.