As for me, the bitterness of death is already over in
that parting. All that now remains is to play the man to the
end.

From further entries in the journal I learned that Alan Blair had
returned to Sweetwater and later on had been ordered to California.
The entries during his sojourn there were few and far between. In all
of them he spoke of Sylvia. Finally, after a long silence, he had
written:

I think the end is not far off now. I am not sorry for my
suffering has been great of late. Last night I was easier. I
slept and dreamed that I saw Sylvia. Once or twice I thought
that I would arrange to have this book sent to her after my
death. But I have decided that it would be unwise. It would
only pain her, so I shall destroy it when I feel the time has
come.

It is sunset in this wonderful summer land. At home in
Sweetwater it is only early spring as yet, with snow lingering
along the edges of the woods. The sunsets there will be
creamy-yellow and pale red now. If I could but see them once
more! And Sylvia--

There was a little blot where the pen had fallen. Evidently the end
had been nearer than Alan Blair had thought. At least, there were no
more entries, and the little green book had not been destroyed. I was
glad that it had not been; and I felt glad that it was thus put in my
power to write the last chapter of Miss Sylvia's story for her.

As soon as I could leave Sweetwater I went to the city, three hundred
miles away, where Miss Sylvia lived. I found her in her library, in
her black silk dress and heliotrope shawl, knitting up cream wool, for
all the world as if she had just been transplanted from the veranda
corner of Harbour Light.

"My dear boy!" she said.

"Do you know why I have come?" I asked.

"I am vain enough to think it was because you wanted to see me," she
smiled.

"I did want to see you; but I would have waited until summer if it had
not been that I wished to bring you the missing chapter of your story,
dear lady."

"I--I--don't understand," said Miss Sylvia, starting slightly.

"I had an uncle, Alan Blair, who died forty years ago in California,"
I said quietly. "Recently I have had occasion to examine some of his
papers. I found a journal among them and I have brought it to you
because I think that you have the best right to it."

I dropped the parcel in her lap. She was silent with surprise and
bewilderment.

"And now," I