FINAL P.S. BY M.T.

THE dawn was come when I laid the Manuscript aside. The rain had almost ceased, the world was gray and sad, the exhausted storm was sighing and sobbing itself to rest. I went to the stranger's room, and listened at his door, which was slightly ajar. I could hear his voice, and so I knocked. There was no answer, but I still heard the voice. I peeped in. The man lay on his back in bed, talking brokenly but with spirit, and punctuating with his arms, which he thrashed about, restlessly, as sick people do in delirium. I slipped in softly and bent over him. His mutterings and ejaculations went on. I spoke -- merely a word, to call his attention. His glassy eyes and his ashy face were alight in an instant with pleasure, gratitude, gladness, welcome:

"Oh, Sandy, you are come at last -- how I have longed for you! Sit by me -- do not leave me -never leave me again, Sandy, never again. Where is your hand? -- give it me, dear, let me hold it -- there -- now all is well, all is peace, and I am happy again -WE are happy again, isn't it so, Sandy? You are so dim, so vague, you are but a mist, a cloud, but you are HERE, and that is blessedness sufficient; and I have your hand; don't take it away -- it is for only a little while, I shall not require it long...... Was that the child?...... Hello-Central!...... she doesn't answer. Asleep, perhaps? Bring her when she wakes, and let me touch her hands, her face, her hair, and tell her good-bye...... Sandy! Yes, you are there. I lost myself a moment, and I thought you were gone...... Have I been sick long? It must be so; it seems months to me. And such dreams! such strange and awful dreams, Sandy! Dreams that were as real............