In his last days, he often came to the Graham House, and Goss was very kind to him, and did not charge him for his meals. He called on Sunday morning, when all were at church save myself. I was ill, in the rocking chair, and for an hour he amused me with his incoherent flights of eloquence, and the recitation of his choicest poetry. He came several times during the week. On a stormy evening, while I was seated by the stove, he rushed in and took a seat beside me, and wept aloud, and spoke of his intense affection for Miss Jones, (the daughter of the wealthy Banker, and President of the Chemical Bank,) whom he supposed was ardently in love with him. He said that he had been twice invited to her parties, but that on ringing the bell, he was twice ejected by the servant. The cards of invitation were forgeries, but those who imposed on McDonald, assured him that they were genuine, and were written by Miss Jones. I strove in vain to disabuse McDonald’s mind, who said he should make the third attempt the following week, and, if possible, he would have an interview with the precious object of his affection. On the afternoon of the following Sunday, he came to the Graham House, and violently rang the bell, and dashed into the parlor, greatly excited, and took a seat on the sofa, where I was reclining, and exclaimed: “Why, Branch, people call me crazy. But you don’t think I’m crazy, do you, Branch? I know you don’t. You love me, don’t you, Branch? I know you do. Heigh ho! I’m not long for this world. I’m going to Heaven in a few days, where I shall fare better than among the unkind people of this world. Yes, I rambled through Greenwood, last week, by the Silver Lake, and selected the lovely and romantic spot where my poor bones will soon repose and wither. (His tears now began to fall like summer rain.) And there will be the sacred bells, and the Grace Church exercises, conducted by the pure and eloquent Dr. Taylor, and the mournful music, and solemn procession, and the Sexton’s dreary hearse and spade, and the pale white monument. And those who now deny me bread, and call me crazy, and trifle with my affections, will then sadly miss me, and my beautiful poetry, and lament my melancholy fate. And they will come and stand before my monument in Greenwood’s Silver Dell, and weep, and profoundly regret that they always neglected poor McDonald Clarke. Yes, Branch, I see my snowy monument by the Silver Lake, and I shall soon be there. O God! Yes, I shall too soon be in that dismal vale. But you will come and see me, won’t you, Branch? I know you will. I know you will, O God! O God! My destiny is very hard.” And he buried his face with both hands, and cried with all the simplicity of childhood, and I strove to restrain my tears, lest he would not cease his lamentation, if he saw my eyes moistened with nature’s sympathising waters. And I breathed kind words into his lacerated heart, and he leaned his head upon my shoulder, and