"I know your upright and manly spirit will see no impropriety in my writing to you. I have done you injustice; and in doing so, have wronged myself, as much as you. I have just learnt that your character has been injured by a fault of mine--by my not having acknowledged giving you the purse. Forgive me, Richard! for I _love_ you, and _have loved_ you, ever since I was a child."--Guinane crumpled the letter between his fingers, and I was able to read no more. I saw him suddenly raise his hands towards the place where once were his ears--at the same time that I heard him muttering the words, "Too late! too late!" Another movement followed this--quick and suspicious. I looked to ascertain its meaning. A revolver was in his hand--its muzzle touching his temples! I rushed forward; but to use his own last words, I was "too late." There were three distinct sounds; a snap, the report of a pistol, and the concussion of a body falling upon the floor. I stooped to raise him up. It was too late. He was dead! Can the reader comprehend the thought that dictated this act of self-destruction? If not, I must leave him in ignorance. In preparing the remains of my comrade for the grave, a silk purse, containing a piece of paper, was found concealed beneath his clothing. There was writing upon the paper, in a female hand. It was as follows:-- "Dick, "I do not believe the stories people tell of you; and think you are too good to do anything wrong I am sorry you have gone away. Good bye. "Amanda." It was, no doubt, the note he had received from Amanda, after his first parting with her--enclosed in the letter of his mother, sent after him to New York. It was replaced in the purse, and both were buried along with his body. Poor Amanda! She may never learn his sad fate--unless chance may direct her to the reading of this narrative. Volume One, Chapter XXIV. AN IMPATIENT MAN. I have not much fault to find with this world--although the people in it do some strange things, and often act in a manner that puzzles me to comprehend. The man of whom Guinane had borrowed the mule, was himself an original character. After my comrade's death, I became slightly acquainted with this individual; and was much amused, though also a little pained, at what I thought to be his eccentric behaviour. Original types of mankind are, perhaps, more frequently met with on gold fields than elsewhere. Men without a certain spirit and character of their own, are less likely to adopt a life of so many perils and hardships, as gold diggers must needs encounter. But there are also men who can _appear_ eccentric--even amongst gold diggers; and the individual to whom I have alluded was one of these. His name was Foster.