both doors now. I am off to spend Christmas. We are going to have a
Tom-and-Jerry party in Jersey. You know--

"'The Tom-and-Jerry days have come, the happiest in the year!'

"Good rendering, eh? That isn't all:

"'I only wish to live till the juleps come again!'"

And Mr. Bangs laughed uproariously, even after he had said, "Good-by,"
and shut the door behind him.

"What a personification of Bacchus!" thought Mr. Bixby--

"'Ever laughing, ever young.'

"He will be young as long as he lives, but I am afraid that won't be
long. If ever there was a man in immediate danger of apoplexy, Bangs
is that man."

It was after dinner when Mr. Bixby lighted his drop-light and sat down
before the fire. He pushed an ottoman in front of him, on which to
rest his feet, which he had comfortably encased in his slippers. But
the shadows in his new room did not please him. He could hardly see
the clock on the mantel. The Madonna above was completely in the
shade. So he lighted the chandelier above and sat down again, hoping
that no friend, either of his own or of Mr. Bangs, would interrupt
him. The desk was open at his feet. The package of letters lay near
him on the table. He placed his hand upon them, but let it rest there.
The hour had not quite arrived when he would read them. He fell again
into the reveries of the day. He lingered over the thoughts of his
better life ere he opened the packet which told of its end. For
the last ten years he had labored without ambition, and had been
successful. His name was well known as a journalist, and his
salary was ample. Before that time he had striven ambitiously, but
fruitlessly, patiently, but as in a quicksand, until, on a day, he had
none to strive for but himself, and then success had come. Since noon,
seven hours and twenty-nine minutes, said the clock before him. His
anniversary was near. Mr. Bixby drew the letters near him, and untied
the package. Just then there came a knock at his door, and, before he
had determined whether or not he should say, "Come in," the door
opened, and an elderly gentleman stepped into the apartment. Quietly
he came in. There was no sound attending his entrance except the
knock. Mr. Bixby, looking up, saw a man of more than ordinary height,
with countenance rigid and puritanical in expression, as though the
mind which had formed it was one influenced more by justice than
mercy. His eyes were concealed by a pair of colored spectacles, but