The two friends remained together nearly a month at Unyanyembe. Letters and parcels arrived. Livingstone rejoices in “four flannel shirts from Agnes,” and “two pairs of fine English boots” from a friend. Despatches have to be written, articles for the _New York Herald_, and grateful letters to many American and English friends--all of which Stanley will take with him. At last, on March 14th, the time has come to say good-bye. Livingstone’s entry in his diary is characteristic: “Mr. Stanley leaves. I commit to his care my journal, sealed with five seals; the impressions on them are those of an American gold coin, anna and half-anna, and cake of paint with royal arms. Positively not to be opened.” All that one man (naturally reticent and reserved) could say of the limitless kindness shown by Stanley, and the noble interest taken by America, Livingstone expressed in his private letters. It is to Stanley’s picturesque pen that we owe the description of the final parting, and we may well quote a few sentences from it:--“My days seem to have been spent in an Elysian field; otherwise, why should I so keenly regret the near approach of the parting hour? Have I not been battered by successive fevers, prostrate with agony day after day lately? Have I not raved and stormed in madness? Have I not clenched my fists in fury, and fought with the wild strength of despair when in delirium? Yet I regret to surrender the pleasure I have felt in this man’s society, though so dearly purchased.... March 14th.--We had a sad breakfast together. I could not eat, my heart was too full; neither did my companion seem to have an appetite. We found something to do which kept us longer together. At eight o’clock I was not gone, and I had thought to have been off at 5 a.m.” But the final parting must be faced. The Doctor will walk out a little way with his friend, and start him on his journey. The carriers were in lively mood, singing on the march. The two friends walked side by side, Stanley searching Livingstone’s features to impress every detail on his memory. At last he halts. “Now, my dear Doctor, the best friends must part; you have come far enough, let me beg of you to turn back.” “Well,” Livingstone replied, “I will say this of you: you have done what few men could do--far better than some great travellers I know. And I am grateful to you for what you have done for me. God guide you safe home and bless you, my friend.” “And may God bring you safe back to us all, my dear friend. Farewell!” “Farewell!” Livingstone turned away. Did his heart forebode that this was the last white face he would ever see, the last white hand he would ever press? Did he feel that he was turning his back for ever on home, and rest, and freedom? Just when a dip in the path would hide the returning exile finally from view, Stanley turned to take one more look. “The old man in grey clothes” was still there. He, too, turned round.