. "Come with me, my love, come—come," cried his mother, seizing his hand, and endeavouring to force him away. I saw the blood come as he rolled over. It had felt wonderful to pick up the fiddle again. He sat on the bed, throwing aside his hat. “Hill gradually recovering consciousness. And, though neither peace nor innocence can be restored to my bosom; though tears cannot blot out my offences, nor sorrow drown my shame; yet, knowing that my penitence is sincere, I do not despair that my transgressions may be forgiven.
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