His voice died away into a whisper, and he struck with his thin hand on the arm of his chair, as if beating time to some dreary tune heard by him alone. "What I ask of you is this, to start as soon as possible for my place in Yorkshire, and to see carried out after the fashion I desire, the obsequies of a man--I mean, a woman--who is lying there dead." Again his voice sank to a whisper, his eyes turned from mine evasively, and he covered them with one of his thin white hands. A man--I mean a woman--what _did_ he mean? "Will you do this?" "Yes, I will do as you ask; it seems strange, no matter, I will do it." "You take a load from me. Ah, my dear ----, if you could only guess what I have suffered, the terrors, the tortures, the _nameless_ misery. I ought to be at the grave side when this terrible burial--Oh, how my head wanders, I have scarcely the power of thought, but say it once again, you will do what I ask, promise me that again." "Yes, yes, I promise, set your mind at rest--I will do what you require." "You will start, then, at once?" "To-morrow." "Yes, to-morrow early, to-morrow early; and now as to what you are to do. Listen, at Ashworth, near my place, there lives a man who works in granite, you will get him to cut a memorial tablet. These words are to be upon it, they are written on this piece of paper, take it; the body is to be buried in the vault of the little church in the park; remember it is to be interred dressed exactly as I have ordered it to be dressed, this is my chief reason for asking you to attend the last ceremonies. I dare not leave this matter to the hands of servants, and I--may not go myself, I am broken down with ill-health and sorrow, and the journey would kill me, though, indeed, I am dying fast enough." His eyes were wandering again, as if following some imaginary spectre about the room. I looked at the piece of paper, on it was written-- "SIR GERALD WILDER, Knt. _Rest in Peace_." Sir Gerald Wilder! why, a moment ago he said "a woman." What mystery was in this? And then, "Rest in Peace," it sounded like a command. "The coffin is ordered," broke out Wilder, suddenly seeming to return to this world from the world of his imagination. "The coffin is made, promise me again, you will go." "I will go." The next morning I started for Ashworth, in Yorkshire, to fulfil my strange mission. I had asked no more of Wilder, content to act without question, which is the first office of friendship. I started early, and arrived at Ashworth shortly after three o'clock. A carriage was waiting to take me to the Gables. The weather was exquisite, and the moors over which the white road led us stretched on either side, far as the eye could reach, like a rolling sea under the blue summer sky and hot June sun. The rocking motion sent me to sleep. When I woke the wheels were crashing on gravel, and the carriage was passing swiftly through a long, dark avenue.