d,
despised old man, with the gloom closing in about him and left to face
it almost alone. The great people to whom he had sold his honor had
long ago paid him his price, and, washing their hands of him, had
passed over to the other side of the way with averted faces; the stout
old king who had protected him from insult as long as he could was
already in the clutch of the fatal malady which was soon to consign
his intellect to eternal night; and it is said that but one creature
stood beside the dying traitor in that supreme hour--the fond woman
who had so lightened the burden of shame he had borne for twenty long
years of splendor and misery, and whose own deliverance was so nigh at
hand.

A singular story is told of Arnold's last moments, which if true (and
pray God it may be!) should be linked with the memory of his crime for
ever. It is said that he ordered to be brought from the garret of his
house the old Continental uniform and sword he had worn for the
last time on the memorable day of his escape from West Point. With
trembling hands he unfolded the coat, and, drawing it painfully over
his shoulders, sat lost in long and deep reflection: then, rousing
himself with a sigh, he drew the sword from its scabbard, and
clenching one hand upon the rich hilt, passed the other absently along
the blade; then with a wild look of regret in his fast-glazing eyes he
let the weapon drop from his grasp, his head sank upon his breast and
he remained motionless until he died, drawing each breath longer and
longer until all were spent. I love to think that he died with the
Continental coat upon his shoulders, nor was it again dishonored by
the contact: it even seems to have lent a ray of its own untarnished
lustre to brighten the last dark, remorseful hours of a ruined life.

K.T.T.

THE WATCH: AN OLD MAN'S STORY.

BY IVAN TOURGUENEFF.

I.

I will tell you my story about the watch. A singular story! The whole
thing at the very beginning of the century, in the year 1801. I was
just sixteen. I lived at Riasan with my father, aunt and cousin, in
a little wooden house not far from the banks of the Oka. I don't
remember my mother: she died when she had been only three years
married, and my father had no child but me. My father's name was
Porphyr Petrovitch: he was a quiet man with feeble health, who
occupied himself with managing law-business, and--in other ways. In
old times they used to call such people sowers of dis