the pitying girl. 

 "George Feval. The very name sounds like fever. He died on Christmas eve, fifteen years ago this night. It was on his death-bed, while his mind was tossing on a sea of delirious fancies, that he wrote me this long letter,—for to the last, I was uppermost in his thoughts. It is a wild, incoherent thing, of course,—a strange mixture of sense and madness. But I have kept it as a memorial of him. I have not looked at it for years; but this morning I found it among my papers, and somehow it has been in my mind all day." 

 He slowly unfolded the faded sheets, and sadly gazed at the writing. His daughter had risen from her half-recumbent posture, and now bent her graceful head over the leaves. The phantom covered its face with its hands. 

 "What a beautiful manuscript it is, father!" she exclaimed. "The writing is faultless." 

 "It is, indeed," he replied. "Would he had written his life as fairly!" 

 "Read it, father," said Nathalie. 

 "No, but I'll read you a detached passage here and there," he answered, after a pause. "The rest you may read yourself some time, if you wish. It is painful to me. Here's the beginning:— 

 "'My Dear Charles Renton:—Adieu, and adieu. It is Christmas eve, and I am going home. I am soon to exhale from my flesh, like the spirit of a broken flower. Exultemus forever!' 

 "It is very wild. His mind was in a fever-craze. Here is a passage that seems to refer to his own experience of life:— 

 "'Your friendship was dear to me. I give you true love. Stocks and returns. You are rich, but I did not wish to be your bounty's pauper. Could I beg? I had my work to do for the world, but oh! the world has no place for souls that can only love and suffer. How many miles to Babylon? Threescore and ten. Not so far—not near so far! Ask starvelings—they know. 

 I wanted to do the world good, and the world has killed me, Charles.'" 

 "It frightens me," said Nathalie, as he paused. 

 "We will read no more," he replied sombrely. "It belongs to the psychology of madness. To me, who knew him, there are gleams of sense in it, and passages where the delirium of the language is only a transparent veil on the meaning. All the remainder is devoted to what he thought important 

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