wife about the forebodings she
could not shake off; talked of a lecturing tour to America that he was
eager to make, "as he was now so well," and played a game at cards with
her to drive away her melancholy. He said he was hungry; begged her
assistance to help him make a salad for the evening meal; and to enhance
the little feast, he brought up a bottle of old Burgundy from the
cellar. He was helping his wife on the verandah, and gaily talking, when
suddenly he put both hands to his head, and cried out, "What's that?"
Then he asked quickly, "Do I look strange?" Even as he did so he fell on
his knees beside her. He was helped into the great hall, between his
wife and his body-servant, Sosimo, losing consciousness instantly as he
lay back in the arm-chair that had once been his grandfather's. Little
time was lost in bringing the doctors--Anderson, of the man-of-war, and
his friend Dr. Funk. They looked at him and shook their heads; they
laboured strenuously, and left nothing undone; but he had passed the
bounds of human skill.

The dying man lay back in the chair, breathing heavily, his family about
him frenzied with grief, as they realised all hope was past. The dozen
and more Samoans that formed part of the little clan of which he was
chief sat in a wide semicircle on the floor, their reverent, troubled,
sorrow-stricken faces all fixed upon their dying master. Some knelt on
one knee, to be instantly ready for any command that might be laid upon
them. A narrow bed was brought into the centre of the room, the Master
was gently laid upon it, his head supported by a rest, the gift of
Shelley's son. Slower and slower grew his respiration, wider the
interval between the long, deep breaths. The Rev. Mr. Clarke was now
come, an old and valued friend; he knelt and prayed as the life ebbed
away.

He died at ten minutes past eight on Monday evening the 3rd of December,
in the forty-fifth year of his age.

The great Union Jack that flew over the house was hauled down, and laid
over the body, fit shroud for a loyal Scotsman. He lay in the hall which
was ever his pride, where he had passed the gayest and most delightful
hours of his life, a noble room with open stairway and mullioned
windows. In it were the treasures of his far-off Scottish home: the old
carved furniture, the paintings and busts that had been in his father's
house before him. The Samoans passed in procession beside his bed,
kneeling and kissing his hand, each in