Searle sank again into his apathy, and on reaching the hotel I helped him to get to bed. For the rest of the day he lay without motion or sound and beyond reach of any appeal. The doctor, whom I had constantly in attendance, was sure his end was near. He expressed great surprise that he should have lasted so long; he must have been living for a month on the very dregs of his strength. Toward evening, as I sat by his bedside in the deepening dusk, he roused himself with a purpose I had vaguely felt gathering beneath his stupor. “My cousin, my cousin,” he said confusedly. “Is she here?” It was the first time he had spoken of Miss Searle since our retreat from her brother’s house, and he continued to ramble. “I was to have married her. What a dream! That day was like a string of verses--rhymed hours. But the last verse is bad measure. What’s the rhyme to ‘love’? _Above!_ Was she a simple woman, a kind sweet woman? Or have I only dreamed it? She had the healing gift; her touch would have cured my madness. I want you to do something. Write three lines, three words: ‘Good-bye; remember me; be happy.’” And then after a long pause: “It’s strange a person in my state should have a wish. Why should one eat one’s breakfast the day one’s hanged? What a creature is man! What a farce is life! Here I lie, worn down to a mere throbbing fever-point; I breathe and nothing more, and yet I _desire!_ My desire lives. If I could see her! Help me out with it and let me die.” Half an hour later, at a venture, I dispatched by post a note to Miss Searle: “_Your cousin is rapidly sinking. He asks to see you._” I was conscious of a certain want of consideration in this act, since it would bring her great trouble and yet no power to face the trouble; but out of her distress I fondly hoped a sufficient force might be born. On the following day my friend’s exhaustion had become so great that I began to fear his intelligence altogether broken up. But toward evening he briefly rallied, to maunder about many things, confounding in a sinister jumble the memories of the past weeks and those of bygone years. “By the way,” he said suddenly, “I’ve made no will. I haven’t much to bequeath. Yet I have something.” He had been playing listlessly with a large signet-ring on his left hand, which he now tried to draw off. “I leave you this”--working it round and round vainly--“if you can get it off. What enormous knuckles! There must be such knuckles in the mummies of the Pharaohs. Well, when I’m gone--! No, I leave you something more precious than gold--the sense of a great kindness. But I’ve a little gold left. Bring me those trinkets.” I placed on the bed before him several articles of jewellery, relics of early foppery: his watch and chain, of great value, a locket and seal, some odds and ends of goldsmith’s work. He trifled with them feebly for some moments, murmuring various names and dates associated with them. At last, looking