-._

My wanderings are almost over. Exposure and misery have
nearly finished their work. I feel my strength ebbing from
day to day, and I know that I must soon die, and die, it may
be, with the purpose which has sustained me all these years
unattained. Knowing this, I have determined to write in this
book the story of my life, hoping that when I am
dead--"found dead," it may be, like a tramp or
vagabond--some pitying eye may fall upon these words and
give me decent burial, for something in me rebels at being
thrown like a dog into an outcast's grave. Here is the story
as I have repeated it over and over to myself hundreds of
times during the weary years that have passed:

I was accounted a quiet, good-natured fellow in the little
town in England where I was born and lived before I came to
this country. I was slow of speech, but I had received a
fair education, and had a turn for reading, and for
scribbling down my thoughts. I was a printer by trade, like
my father before me. He died when I was a lad of sixteen,
leaving me to care for the mother, and for Barbara. She was
the daughter of our nearest neighbor, and from the time she
could walk we were always together. When she was still very
young her parents died, and their children were scattered,
and Barbara came to us. I was the only child left of many,
and my mother gladly welcomed her as a daughter. We lived
together for years as brother and sister, but I was not long
in finding out that my love for Barbara passed that of any
brother, and when she was fifteen we became engaged.

From that day I had but one ambition in life--to put myself
into circumstances where I could make her my wife, for I had
vowed in my heart not to do so until I could offer her
something more than the hard lot of a common mechanic's
wife. It seemed to me she was born for something better. She
was a real English beauty, with chestnut hair falling far
below her waist, and a skin like milk and roses. A gay,
bright creature she was, fond of music and dancing and
company; fond of me too, as I believe still, though I _was_
slow and silent and awkward; trusting in me, leaning upon
me, and confiding in me every thought of her innocent
heart.

I did not care for gay scenes myself, but I often went wi