It was the single, despairing call of a soul that was full of
trouble; that was "laid in the lowest pit, in darkness, in the deeps."
But the bewildered brain of the dying man caught the cry, and he
muttered it over to himself; "Father! father! where is he?"
"It's God, our Father who art in heaven," said Ann Holland, uttering the
words very slowly and distinctly in his ear; "try to think of Him, and
pray to Him. He'll hear you, even now."
"Father!" he muttered again, "why! he'd be ashamed of his boy."
"It's God," she said, keeping down her sobs, "you've no other father.
Think of Him: God, who loves you."
"He'd be ashamed of me," repeated the dying man.
For a minute or two he kept on whispering to himself words they could
not hear, except the one word "shame." Then all was still. The miserable
end had come; and neither love nor patience could avail him anything on
this side the grave. He had gone as a drunkard into the presence of his
Judge.
CHAPTER XII.
A COLONIAL CURACY
The death of Richard Holland might have had a salutary effect upon Sophy
Chantrey, if it had not been for the shock of learning how deeply she
had disgraced herself and her husband in the sight of his people.
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