y day I look at it, and accustom myself to the thought of
it; often I lay me down in it, and bethink me how good it would be were
I never to rise from it again. It is quite ready. I took some trouble
about it; it is just like hers. My name has already been driven into it
with nice silver nails, only the date of my death has to be added. That
priest is to pray over me who prayed over her, and how beautiful that
will be!"

"Sir, sir!" interrupted the priest, "who can read in the book of life
and death, or tell which of us twain will live longest, or die first?"

The Squire beckoned to the priest to bear with him--he himself knew
best.

"Further, remove none of the mourning draperies from the rooms, let
everything remain as it was at the time of her burial. Let the selfsame
cantors come from Debreczen and sing over me the same chants, and no
other. Just what they sang over her, and the selfsame youths must do it.
All those chants were so dear to me."

"Oh, sir," said the priest, "perchance every one of these students may
be grown-up men by then."

The Squire only shook his head, and thus proceeded--

"And when they have opened the vault, they are to break down the
partition wall between the two niches, so that there may be nothing
between her coffin and mine, and I may descend into the grave with the
comfortable thought that I shall sleep beside her till the day of that
joyful resurrection which God grants to every true believer. Amen!"

And all those big grave men sitting round the table there fell
a-weeping, and not one of them felt ashamed of himself before the
others. Even the matter-of-fact lawyer spoilt his nib, and could not see
the letters he was writing. Only on the Squire's face was there no sign
of sadness. He spoke like one bent on preparing his bridal chamber.

"When I am buried, my funeral monument--it is standing all ready in my
museum--must be placed beside hers. The date of death is alone wanting,
and I want nothing added to the inscription: it must remain just as it
is--my name and nothing more. Beneath it are inscribed these lines: 'He
lived but one year, the rest he slept away.' One of my treasures is
beneath the ground, and in no long time I shall be alone with it. My
second treasure, my joy, the hope of my soul, remains here. I mean my
son."

At these words the first tear he had shed appeared in Karpathy's eyes.
He dried it hastily, but it was a tear of joy.

"May he never resemble me in a