"Papa is dying--he will soon go away, and his little daughter will not
promise the last thing he asks of her?"
Instantly, in a flood of penitent tears, her arms were flung about his
neck and she was promising over and over, "I will, I will," and sobbing
on his shoulder.
He suffered the embrace for a few moments and then pushed her gently
aside.
"Papa is tired now, dear. I want to teach you a Bible verse, that you
must never, never forget: 'The way of the transgressor is hard.' Say it
after me."
The child brushed her tears away and stood upright.
"The way of the transgressor is hard," she repeated in a sobbing voice.
"Repeat it three times."
She repeated it three times slowly.
"Tell Uncle John and Aunt Prue that that was the last thing I taught you,
will you?"
"Yes, papa," catching her breath with a little sob.
"And now run away and come back in a hour and I will read the letters to
you. Ask Nurse to tell you when it is an hour."
The child skipped away, and before many minutes he heard her laughing
with the children on the beach. With the letters in his hand, and the
crumpled handkerchief with the moist red spots tucked away behind him in
the chair, he leaned back and closed his eyes. His breath came easily
after a little time and he dozed and dreamed. He was a boy again and it
was a moonlight night, snow was on the ground, and he was walking home
from town besides his oxen; he had sold the load of wood that he had
started with before daylight; he had eaten his two lunches of bread and
salt beef and doughnuts, and now, cold and tired and sleepy, he was
walking back home at the side of his oxen.
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