hat will
live. The other side of him is of the earth; it is that he will leave
behind him.

He kept his word. In the morning he was gone, and I never saw him again.
I had many letters from him, hopeful at first, full of strong resolves.
He told me he had written to Elspeth, not telling her everything, for
that she would not understand, but so much as would explain; and from her
he had had sweet womanly letters in reply. I feared she might have been
cold and unsympathetic, for often good women, untouched by temptation
themselves, have small tenderness for those who struggle. But her
goodness was something more than a mere passive quantity; she loved him
the better because he had need of her. I believe she would have saved
him from himself, had not fate interfered and taken the matter out of her
hands. Women are capable of big sacrifices; I think this woman would
have been content to lower herself, if by so doing she could have raised
him.

But it was not to be. From India he wrote to me that he was coming home.
I had not met the Fawley woman for some time, and she had gone out of my
mind until one day, chancing upon a theatrical paper, some weeks old, I
read that "Miss Fawley had sailed for Calcutta to fulfil an engagement of
long standing."

I had his last letter in my pocket. I sat down and worked out the
question of date. She would arrive in Calcutta the day before he left.
Whether it was chance or intention on her part I never knew; as likely as
not the former, for there is a fatalism in this world shaping our ends.

I heard no more from him, I hardly expected to do so, but three months
later a mutual acquaintance stopped me on the Club steps.

"Have you heard the news," he said, "about young Harjohn?"

"No," I replied. "Is he married?"

"Married," he answered, "No, poor devil, he's dead!"

"Thank God," was on my lips, but fortunately I checked myself. "How did
it happen?" I asked.

"At a shooting party, up at some Rajah's place. Must have caught his gun
in some brambles, I suppose. The bullet went clean through his head."

"Dear me," I said, "how very sad!" I could think of nothing else to say
at the moment.

THE MATERIALISATION OF CHARLES AND MIVANWAY

The fault that most people will find with this story is that it is
unconvincing. Its scheme is improbable, its atmosphere artificial. To
confess that the thing really happened--not as I am about to set it down,
for the pen of th