horrid, horrid sights. Feel my wristband, Jonson, and here at my back,
you would think they had been pouring water over me, but its only the
cold sweat. Oh! it is a fearful thing to have a bad conscience, Job; but
you won't leave me till daylight, now, that's a dear, good Job!"

"For shame, Dawson," said Jonson; "pluck up, and be a man; you are like a
baby frightened by its nurse. Here's the clergyman come to heal your poor
wounded conscience, will you hear him now?"

"Yes," said Dawson; "yes!--but go out of the room--I can't tell all if
you're here; go, Job, go!--but you're not angry with me--I don't mean to
offend you."

"Angry!" said Job; "Lord help the poor fellow! no, to be sure not. I'll
stay outside the door till you've done with the clergyman--but make
haste, for the night's almost over, and it's as much as the parson's life
is worth to stay here after daybreak."

"I will make haste," said the guilty man, tremulously; "but, Job, where
are you going--what are you doing? leave the light!--here, Job, by the
bed-side."

Job did as he was desired, and quitted the room, leaving the door not so
firmly shut, but that he might hear, if the penitent spoke aloud, every
particular of his confession.

I seated myself on the side of the bed, and taking the skeleton hand of
the unhappy man, spoke to him in the most consolatory and comforting
words I could summon to my assistance. He seemed greatly soothed by my
efforts, and at last implored me to let him join me in prayer. I knelt