Oh what's the matter?
I feel strange," said Anderson falling back on the bed suddenly stricken with paralysis.
While in another room lay his younger son a victim to delirium tremens, and dying in fearful agony.

The curse that John Anderson had sent to other homes had come back darkened with the shadow of death to brood over his own habitation.

His son is dying, but he has no word of hope to cheer the parting spirit as it passed out into the eternity, for him the darkness of the tomb, is not gilded with the glory of the resurrection.
The best medical skill has been summoned to the aid of John Anderson, but neither art, nor skill can bind anew the broken threads of life.

The chamber in which he is confined is a marvel of decoration, light streams into his home through panes of beautifully stained glass.

Pillows of the softest down are placed beneath his head, beautiful cushions lie at his feet that will never take another step on the errands of sin, but no appliances of wealth can give peace to his guilty conscience.