d to
read. One of the volumes was a Swinburne. He lay in bed, glancing
through its pages, until suddenly he became aware that he was reading
with interest. He finished the stanza, attempted to read on, then came
back to it. He rested the book face downward on his breast and fell to
thinking. That was it. The very thing. Strange that it had never come
to him before. That was the meaning of it all; he had been drifting that
way all the time, and now Swinburne showed him that it was the happy way
out. He wanted rest, and here was rest awaiting him. He glanced at the
open port-hole. Yes, it was large enough. For the first time in weeks
he felt happy. At last he had discovered the cure of his ill. He picked
up the book and read the stanza slowly aloud:-

"'From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives forever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.'"

He looked again at the open port. Swinburne had furnished the key. Life
was ill, or, rather, it had become ill--an unbearable thing. "That dead
men rise up never!" That line stirred him with a profound feeling of
gratitude. It was the one beneficent thing in the universe. When life
became an aching weariness, death was ready to soothe away to everlasting
sleep. But what was he waiting for? It was time to go.

He arose and thrust his head out the port-hole, looking down into the
milky wash. The Mariposa was deeply loaded, and, hanging by his hands,
his feet would be in the water. He could slip in noiselessly. No one
would hear. A smother of spray dashed up, wetting his face. It tasted
salt on his lips, and the taste was good. He wondered if he ought to
write a swan-song, but laughed the thought away. There was no time. He
was too impatient to be gone.

Turning off the light in his room so that it might not betray him, he
went out the port-hole feet first. His shoulders stuck, and he forced
himself back so as to try it with one arm down by his side. A roll of
the steamer aided him, and he was through, hanging by his hands. When
his feet touched the sea, he let go. He was in a milky froth of water.
The side of the Mariposa rushed past him like a dark wall, broken here
and there by lighted ports. She was certainly making time. Almost
before he knew it, he was astern, swimming gently o