ed intently, Freda lay, as she lay nightly
when he was really asleep. The shutters were half open; the room still
smelt slightly of rum. I stood for a long time looking at the face:
the little white fans of moustache brushed upwards even in death, the
hollows in his cheeks, the quiet of his figure; he was like some old
knight.... The dog broke the spell. She sat up, and resting her paws on
the bed, licked his face. I went downstairs--I couldn't bear to hear her
howl. This was his letter to me, written in a pointed handwriting:

"MY DEAR SIR,--Should you read this, I shall be gone. I am ashamed to
trouble you--a man should surely manage so as not to give trouble; and
yet I believe you will not consider me importunate. If, then, you will
pick up the pieces of an old fellow, I ask you to have my sword, the
letter enclosed in this, and the photograph that stands on the stove
buried with me. My will and the acknowledgments of my property are
between the leaves of the Byron in my tin chest; they should go to Lucy
Tor--address thereon. Perhaps you will do me the honour to retain for
yourself any of my books that may give you pleasure. In the Pilgrim's
Progress you will find some excellent recipes for Turkish coffee,
Italian and Spanish dishes, and washing wounds. The landlady's daughter
speaks Italian, and she would, I know, like to have Freda; the poor dog
will miss me. I have read of old Indian warriors taking their horses
and dogs with them to the happy hunting-grounds. Freda would come--noble
animals are dogs! She eats once a day--a good large meal--and requires
much salt. If you have animals of your own, sir, don't forget--all
animals require salt. I have no debts, thank God! The money in my
pockets would bury me decently--not that there is any danger. And I am
ashamed to weary you with details--the least a man can do is not to make
a fuss--and yet he must be found ready.--Sir, with profound gratitude,
your servant,

"ROGER BRUNE."

Everything was as he had said. The photograph on the stove was that of
a young girl of nineteen or twenty, dressed in an old-fashioned style,
with hair gathered backward in a knot. The eyes gazed at you with a
little frown, the lips were tightly closed; the expression of the face
was eager, quick, wilful, and, above all, young.

The tin trunk was scented with dry fragments of some herb, the history
of which in that trunk man knoweth not.... There were a few clothes, but
very few, all o