“Well, give me a minute more. Sit down again, and I will not detain you more than a minute or two. When I asked to speak with you alone, Doctor, it was to beg of you to make my will. You need not be afraid that it will take long. I have only one legacy and one heir. Now, mind what I shall say to you. It may happen--I myself think it will happen--that I shall get better of this fever. Much of my raving--what they call my raving--was such wandering as passes through my head any day; so that it may easily be I have never been so ill as I seemed to be, and all the wonderful stories Mrs. Simcox told you in the window last night--my strange fancies about my bare feet bleeding with the sharp stones--no matter, fact or fancy, it was in my head before this. You are attending to me?” “I am.” “I was afraid you thought that this explanation was only ‘wandering’ of another sort; but I see you do not. I see you follow me.” He nodded. “If, however, _your_ skill be better than my second sight--if I can call it so--I have a task for you to do. When it shall be all over, before I am buried, you will take care but wait, let us do it regularly.” She raised herself on one arm as she spoke, and with the other hand she pointed to a small writing-table at the farther part of the room. “Open that desk, and take out an envelope. It ought to be black-edged for the occasion,” said she, with a sad smile, “but I don’t think it matters much. Yes, that one will do very well. Write now the address I shall give you: Mr. Peter Malone.’ Show it to me--is it large and plain? No; take another. It must be clear, bold writing. I think I ought to write it myself--of course I ought, and I will.” “All this excitement is wrong.” “Then don’t prolong it. Give me the pen and that book to write on. I declare it is _you_ that are nervous, Doctor. What makes your hand shake?” “If I am nervous, it is because I feel much self-reproach for all this--this----” “This--what?” asked she, smiling. “Do give it a name. I am sure you are not angry at my detaining you. You are too kind and too considerate to reckon minutes against one who may have so few of them; and then, as to this task I impose on you,” and she smiled again--“do confess you never heard of so short a will. There, it is all written now. Read it out, that I may see if it be legible.” “‘Mr. Peter Malone, to the care of Mr. T. O’Rorke, Vinegar Hill, Cush-ma-Creena, Ireland.’”