“I offered him medicines--I attempted to adjust him in his bed. He had been greatly neglected. He repelled both offers, and, feebly waving his hand, said, “Let me, at least, die in peace.” A few moments after, he unclosed his eyes, and recognized me. A gleam of pleasure trembled over his countenance, for he remembered the interest I had shewn for his unfortunate friend. He said, in a voice hardly intelligible, “It is you, then?” “Yes, my brother, it is I--can I do any thing for you?” After a long pause, he added, “Yes, you can.” “Tell me then.” He lowered his voice, which was before almost inaudible, and whispered, “Let none of them come near me in my dying moments--it will not give you much trouble--those moments are approaching.” I pressed his hand in token of acquiescence. But I felt there was something at once terrifying and improper in this request from a dying man. I said to him, “My dear brother, you are then dying?--would you not wish an interest in the prayers of the community?--would you not wish the benefit of the last sacraments?” He shook his head, and I fear that I understood him too well. I ceased any further importunity; and a few moments he uttered, in tones I could hardly distinguish, “_Let them, let me die._--They have left me no power to form another wish.” His eyes closed,--I sat beside his bed, holding his hand in mine. At first, I could feel he attempted to press it--the attempt failed, his hold relaxed. Fra Paolo was no more. “I continued to sit holding the dead hand in mine, till a groan from an adjacent bed roused me. It was occupied by the old monk with whom I had held a long conversation the night before the miracle, in which I still believed most firmly.