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do not hesitate to worry him. The loving wife, forsooth, and the dutiful children call in the lawyer and advise that a will might as well be made now as later. And oh, what a trial is that for the poor worldling! A rich man undergoes three distinct agonies: when he makes his will; when he settles his spiritual affairs, and when his soul leaves his body. The making of a will! The scratching of the pen is as a tearing of his vitals; every drop of ink is as a drop of his heart's blood; every item set down is a severing of a bond that binds him to earth. But it is done at last; he has given up all; hope seems to abandon him; he breaks down and sobs out piteously: " Naked did I come forth from my mother's womb, and naked do I return into the womb of my mother earth." And now, and now only, does he remember and fully realize he has an immortal soul — a soul of infinite value in the sight of God — a soul to save which was the one grand work of his life, the one reason for his creation. But alas! for the greater part of his life his soul has been dead. It is dead even now of a hundred self-inflicted mortal wounds— of a hundred mortal sins. " False wife, false children, you pretend to grieve over the death of my body, will you not try to save the life of my soul? You try to relieve my temporal sufferings, will you do nothing to save me from eternal torments? For God's sake bring the priest." And so the priest comes and he performs his sacred functions with horrible doubt and misgiving at his heart. He enters that fetid chamber of death to take that poor agonizing soul, half-crazed with suffering,