by the old wall in the garden where He spent the vivid afternoons of spring. Only toward night-fall, was He able to write that beautiful clear script of His, to bring any of His usual alertness to bear upon affairs: even then that alertness was extraordinarily diluted. His intellect was nebulous, uncertain. He could not select saliencies, could not concentrate his thoughts: His constructive faculty was in abeyance: His imagination was in chains. He spent a long time over His scanty meals, chewing, chewing, reading, reading, and remembering nothing which He read. In an inert perfunctory way, He blamed Himself for waste of time; and continued to waste it. No doubt it was divine nature's will. Let it be understood that He was not slothful in the confessional sense of the word. He was merely lethargic, dulled, blunted, listless, eager for nothing, except to flee away and be at rest--at rest. From this stupor, He awoke in panic, as though nympholeptose, lymphatic, driven to phrenzy by some unknown external agency. He became inspired with an appalling consciousness of the absolute necessity for instant active continuous exertion,--if He were to continue alive upon this earth. He felt that, if He were to permit Himself to relax for one instant, if for one instant He were to abdicate command of His physical forces, to let Himself go,--that instant would be His last. With this in His mind, He prepared for momentary unconscious lapses from violent activity. He posed with care, so that, if Death should seize Him unawares, He might not present a disedifying or untidy spectacle to the finders of His corpse. He carefully avoided postures from which, when He should be reft from the body, His form would fall indecorously. He did not trouble His confessor more often than twice a week as usual: but His one prayer, His incantation, always was on His lips, "Dear Jesus, be not to me a Judge, but a Saviour." He was losing hold of the world. Continually, through every hour of the day and night, His head rang with the reverberating boom--boom--boom--boom of His strong heart's beating. The rhythm was maddening. He used to count the pulsations, wondering, after "fourteen," whether He would be able to say "fifteen": after "ninety-seven," whether He would be in Rome to say "ninety-eight": expecting the sudden wrench of self from body: conjecturing the nature of that unique experience. Once, He put Himself to the question "Was He afraid?" He answered, No, because He dared to hope; and, Yes, because He had not been there before. But Sokrates had said that death was our greatest possession on earth; and Seneca said that death was the best of the inventions of life; and Seneca's friend Saint Paul said "to die is gain." On the whole, He was not afraid, afraid, of death. But, He did not dare to go--to go--to sleep now. At night, He used to lie in bed, first on His right side, then at full length on His back with the pillow under His neck, and His