aw him last
night in the ward. Shan't see him there to-morrow night, I expect," he
added with a laugh, bringing down his rocking, tiled chair on its four
legs, and determining at last to light the cigarette.

"You wanted to see the death, I thought," remarked Dick.

"I did; but, hang it, the fellow's been dying so long, my curiosity's
worn out. However, I may come in for the show to-morrow morning if I am
down at the hospital in time."

There was rather a cold silence after this remark, which made the young
fellow look up and then add, hastily.--

"He's such an awful coward, you know, one can't feel much sympathy for
him. 'Oh, it's so hard to die,' he goes on, 'at twenty-three! Can
nothing save me? It seems so hard at twenty-three!' Well, I suppose no
one does like going out, but still if a fellow knows he's got to"--

He paused. No one spoke for the minute, and then he went on,--

"Brought it on himself, too; I never saw a fellow so thoroughly knocked
out! And now he does nothing but whine over it--'Oh, I'd do so
differently if I had my time over again!' I said to him last night,
'Now, look here, Johnson, why don't you try and console yourself with
thinking you enjoyed life at the time?'"

"Did you say Johnson?" I asked. "What is his Christian name?"

"Howard," he answered.

The two other men started, and looked at me. The speaker glanced at
them, and then added hastily to me,--

"Do you know him?"

"Slightly," I answered, coldly.

He coloured.

"I am sorry if I"--

"Not at all," I said. "All that concerns him is quite a matter of
indifference to me."

There was a pause, and then, by tacit mutual consent, the topic was not
renewed. The men spoke of other things, and I sat in silence.

So Howard had killed himself--was dying in this way, like a poisoned
rat. It was, as I had said, a matter of indifference to me. I did not
feel one pulse of sorrow or regret. It is strange how completely and
entirely these emotions of love, affection, friendship, hate expire,
and leave no trace of their past existence.

I hear and read much of "lingering memories," "clinging remembrance,"
but for me the tender track of a past affection does not exist. He had,
as I had told him, cut out our friendship by the roots, and I heard now
of his approaching death as that of an absolute stranger.

I wondered idly where was that softening influence, and on what sort of
natures did it act, that is supposed to survive all dead a