She longed to do so much, yet was able to do so little.
Mrs.Lang came in slowly, heavily; her face was white, her eyes were red.
"He is dead," she gasped, as she dropped heavily into a chair.
"He is dead!" and her voice grew high and shrill and quavering.
"Poor soul, poor soul," sighed Miss Patch softly.

"Did he suffer much?
I hope he was spared that." "He was never conscious, he--he--had no time to be sorry--to repent, or try to be better.

He was struck down in the midst of all his wickedness and folly, with lying and cheating and bad language all about him.

His last feeling was passion--and so he died--and I feel that I am as bad as any of them, I never tried to save him," and the poor widow laid her head on her outstretched arms and sobbed uncontrollably.
Miss Patch laid her thin arm around the shaking shoulder.

"You did.
My dear, you did.