h passed over his features from time to
time, that something was worrying and oppressing him; something which he
wished to communicate, and had not the force, or the tenacity of purpose,
to make perfectly clear. His eyes often wandered to a certain desk, and
once he had found strength to lift his emaciated arm and point to it. The
doctor went towards it as if to fetch it to him, but he slowly shook his
head. He had not the power to say at that time what he wished. The next
day he felt a little less prostrated; and succeeded in explaining to the
doctor what he wanted. His words, so far as the physician could make
them out, were these which follow. Dr. Butts looked upon them as
possibly expressing wishes which would be his last, and noted them down
carefully immediately after leaving his chamber.

"I commit the secret of my life to your charge. My whole story is told
in a paper locked in that desk. The key is--put your hand under my
pillow. If I die, let the story be known. It will show that I
was--human--and save my memory from reproach."

He was silent for a little time. A single tear stole down his hollow
cheek. The doctor turned his head away, for his own eyes were full. But
he said to himself, "It is a good sign; I begin to feel strong hopes that
he will recover."

Maurice spoke once more. "Doctor, I put full trust in you. You are wise
and kind. Do what you will with this paper, but open it at once and
read. I want you to know the story of my life before it is finished--if
the end is at hand. Take it with you and read it before you sleep." He
was exhausted and presently his eyes closed, but the doctor saw a
tranquil look on his features which added encouragement to his hopes.

XVIII

MAURICE KIRKWOOD'S STORY OF HIS LIFE.

I am an American by birth, but a large part of my life has been passed in
foreign lands. My father was a man of education, possessed of an ample
fortune; my mother was considered, a very accomplished and amiable woman.
I was their first and only child. She died while I was yet an infant.
If I remember her at all it is as a vision, more like a glimpse of a
pre-natal existence than as a part of my earthly life. At the death of
my mother I was left in the charge of the old nurse who had enjoyed her
perfect confidence. She was devoted to me, and I became absolutely
dependent on her, who had for me all the love and all the care of a
mother. I was naturally the object of the attentions and car