papers. I
brought them to him on his bed. There was a little bundle of old
letters which he put aside. There was his unfinished book. There was his
Diary--in many locked volumes. He opened the volume for this year, and
tore out, one by one, the pages relating to the time when you and he
were together. "Give those," he said, "to Mr. Franklin Blake. In years
to come, he may feel an interest in looking back at what is written
there." Then he clasped his hands, and prayed God fervently to bless
you, and those dear to you. He said he should like to see you again. But
the next moment he altered his mind. "No," he answered when I offered to
write. "I won't distress him! I won't distress him!"

At his request I next collected the other papers--that is to say, the
bundle of letters, the unfinished book and the volumes of the Diary--and
enclosed them all in one wrapper, sealed with my own seal. "Promise,"
he said, "that you will put this into my coffin with your own hand; and
that you will see that no other hand touches it afterwards."

I gave him my promise. And the promise has been performed.

He asked me to do one other thing for him--which it cost me a hard
struggle to comply with. He said, "Let my grave be forgotten. Give me
your word of honour that you will allow no monument of any sort--not
even the commonest tombstone--to mark the place of my burial. Let me
sleep, nameless. Let me rest, unknown." When I tried to plead with
him to alter his resolution, he became for the first, and only time,
violently agitated. I could not bear to see it; and I gave way. Nothing
but a little grass mound marks the place of his rest. In time, the
tombstones will rise round it. And the people who come after us will
look and wonder at the nameless grave.

As I have told you, for six hours before his death his sufferings
ceased. He dozed a little. I think he dreamed. Once or twice he smiled.
A woman's name, as I suppose--the name of "Ella"--was often on his lips
at this time. A few minutes before the end he asked me to lift him on
his pillow, to see the sun rise through the window. He was very weak.
His head fell on my shoulder. He whispered, "It's coming!" Then he said,
"Kiss me!" I kissed his forehead. On a sudden he lifted his head.
The sunlight touched his face. A beautiful expression, an angelic
expression, came over it. He cried out three times, "Peace! peace!
peace!" His head sank back again on my shoulder, and the long trouble of
h