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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,