his hand.

"Take it," said Warde, "to some quiet spot where you cannot be
disturbed."

John nodded.

"I have seen how it was with you," Warde continued, with deep emotion,
"and you have had my acute sympathy, the more acute, perhaps, because
long ago a friend went out of my life without a sign." Warde paused.
"Now, unless my whole experience is at fault, you hold in your hand
what you want--and what you deserve."

Warde left the library; John put the letter into his pocket. Where
should he go? One place beckoned him. Upon the tower, looking towards
the Hill, he would read the last letter of his friend.

Within half an hour he was passing through the iron gates. He had not
visited the garden since that forlorn winter's afternoon, when he came
here, alone, after bidding Desmond good-bye. He could recall the
desolation of the scene: bleak Winter dripping tears upon the tomb of
Summer. With what disgust he had perceived the decaying masses of
vegetation, the sodden turf, the soot upon the bare trunks of the
trees. He had rushed away, fancying that he heard Desmond's voice.
"There is a curse on the place."

Now, May had touched what had seemed dead and hideous, and, lo! a
miracle. The hawthorns shone white against the brilliant green of the
laurels; the horse-chestnuts had---to use a fanciful expression of
Caesar's--"lit their lamps." Out of the waving grass glimmered and
sparkled a thousand wild flowers. John heard the glad _Fruehlingslied_
of bees and birds. Then, opening his lungs, he inhaled the
life-renewing odours of earth renascent; opening his heart he felt a
spiritual essence pervading every fibre of his being. Once more the
chilled sap in his veins flowed generously. It was well with him and
well with his friend. This conviction possessed him, remember, before
he opened the letter.

He ascended the tower, and broke the seal.

"I have been meaning to write to you, dear old chap, ever since we
parted; but, somehow, I couldn't bring myself to tackle it in earnest
till to-night. To-morrow, we have a thundering big job ahead of us;
the last job, perhaps, for me. Old Jonathan, you have been the best
friend a man ever had, the only one I love as much as my own
brothers--_and even more_. It was from knowing you that I came to see
what good-for-nothing fools some fellows are. You were always so
unselfish and _straight_; and you made me feel that I was the contrary,
and that you knew it, and t