lder than those he usually wore. Besides the Byron and
Pilgrim's Progress were Scott's Quentin Durward, Captain Marryat's
Midshipman Easy, a pocket Testament, and a long and frightfully stiff
book on the art of fortifying towns, much thumbed, and bearing date
1863. By far the most interesting thing I found, however, was a diary,
kept down to the preceding Christmas. It was a pathetic document, full
of calculations of the price of meals; resolutions to be careful over
this or that; doubts whether he must not give up smoking; sentences of
fear that Freda had not enough to eat. It appeared that he had tried to
live on ninety pounds a year, and send the other hundred pounds home to
Lucy for the child; in this struggle he was always failing, having to
send less than the amount-the entries showed that this was a nightmare
to him. The last words, written on Christmas Day, were these "What is
the use of writing this, since it records nothing but failure!"

The landlady's daughter and myself were at the funeral. The same
afternoon I went into the concert-room, where I had spoken to him first.
When I came out Freda was lying at the entrance, looking into the faces
of every one that passed, and sniffing idly at their heels. Close by the
landlady's daughter hovered, a biscuit in her hand, and a puzzled, sorry
look on her face.

September 1900.

TO

MY BROTHER HUBERT GALSWORTHY

SALVATION OF A FORSYTE

I

Swithin Forsyte lay in bed. The corners of his mouth under his white
moustache drooped towards his double chin. He panted:

"My doctor says I'm in a bad way, James."

His twin-brother placed his hand behind his ear. "I can't hear you.
They tell me I ought to take a cure. There's always a cure wanted for
something. Emily had a cure."

Swithin replied: "You mumble so. I hear my man, Adolph. I trained
him.... You ought to have an ear-trumpet. You're getting very shaky,
James."

There was silence; then James Forsyte, as if galvanised, remarked: "I
s'pose you've made your will. I s'pose you've left your money to the
family; you've nobody else to leave it to. There was Danson died the
other day, and left his money to a hospital."

The hairs of Swithin's white moustache bristled. "My fool of a doctor
told me to make my will," he said, "I hate a fellow who tells you to
make your will. My appetite's good; I ate a partridge last night. I'm
all the better for eating. He told me to leave off champagne! I eat a