"Pearl," he spoke again, after a pause, pressing his hand
to his forehead, "while my mind holds clear, perhaps you
would be good enough, you have been so good to me, to
say that prayer you learned. My father will be in his
study now, and soon it will be time for morning prayers.
I often feel his blessing on me, Pearl. I want to feel
it now, bringing peace and rest...weary and content and
undishonoured, and...undishonoured...and grant us..."
His voice grew fainter and trailed away into incoherency.
And now, oh thou dignified rector of St. Agnes, in thy
home beyond the sea, lay aside the "Appendix to the
Apology of St. Perpetua," over which thou porest, for
under all thy dignity and formalism there beats a loving
father's heart. The shadows are gathering, dear sir,
around thy fifth son in a far country, and in the gathering
shadows there stalks, noiselessly, relentlessly, that
grim, gray spectre, Death. On thy knees, then, oh Rector
of St. Agnes, and blend thy prayers with the feeble
petitions of her who even now, for thy house, entreats
the Throne of Grace. Pray, oh thou on whom the bishop's
hands have been laid, that the golden bowl be not broken
nor the silver cord loosed, for the breath of thy fifth
son draws heavily, and the things of time and sense are
fading, fading, fading from his closing eyes.
Pearl repeated the prayer.
--And grant, oh most merciful Father for His sake;
That we may hereafter lead a godly, righteous and a
sober life--
She stopped abruptly.
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