the death-bed of a mutual benefactor.

"Will you wait without?" said my mother.

"No," answered I, "I will watch over him." So I stole in, with a light
step, and seated myself by my uncle's bed-side. He was asleep, and his
sleep was as hushed and quiet as an infant's. I looked upon his face,
and saw a change had come over it, and was increasing sensibly: but
there was neither harshness nor darkness in the change, awful as it was.
The soul, so long nurtured on benevolence, could not, in parting, leave
a rude stamp on the kindly clay which had seconded its impulses so well.

The evening had just set in, when my uncle woke; he turned very gently,
and smiled when he saw me.

"It is late," said he, and I observed with a wrung heart, that his voice
was fainter.

"No, Sir, not very," said I.

"Late enough, my child; the warm sun has gone down; and 'tis a good time
to close one's eyes, when all without looks gray and chill: methinks it
is easier to wish thee farewell, Morton, when I see thy face
indistinctly. I am glad I shall not die in the daytime. Give me thy
hand, my child, and tell me that thou art not angry with thine old uncle
for thwarting thee in that love business. I have heard tales of the
girl, too, which made me glad, for thy sake, that it is all off, though
I might not tell thee of them before. 'Tis very dark, Morton. I have
had a pleasant sleep. Ods fish, I do not think a bad man would have
slept so well. The fire burns dim, Morton: it is very cold. Cover me