"And I hope long to continue so, Mrs. Brown. By the way, were not your wages due a day or two ago?" "Oh yes! sir--but it does not signify, sir, the least; though on second thoughts--it does, sir; for my little niece is to be taken into the country--she's dying, I fear--and her mother's been out of work for"---- "Here's a ten-pound note, Mrs. Brown," replied Mr. Gammon, taking one from his pocket-book--"pay yourself your wages; write me a receipt as usual, and keep the rest on account of the next quarter, if it will assist you just now when you are in trouble." She took the bank-note with many expressions of thankfulness; and but for her tears, which flowed plentifully, she might have noticed that there was something deadly in the eye of her kind and tranquil master. On her retiring, he rose, and walked to and fro for a long time, with folded arms, wrapped in profound meditation--from which he was occasionally unpleasantly startled by hearing knocks at his door, and then his laundress assuring the visitor that Mr. Gammon was out of town, but would return on the morrow. It was a cheerless November day, the snow fluttering lazily through the foggy air; but his room was made snug and cheerful enough, by the large fire which he kept up. Opening his desk, he sat down, about noon, and wrote a very long letter--in the course of which, however, he repeatedly laid down his pen--got up and walked about, heaving deep sighs, and being occasionally exceedingly agitated. At length he concluded it, paused some time, and then folded it up, and sealed it. Then he spent at least two hours in examining all the papers in his desk and cabinet. A considerable number of them he burned, and replaced and arranged the remainder carefully. Then again he walked up and down the room. The cat, a very fine and favorite one, which had been several years an inmate of the chambers, attracted his attention, by rubbing against his legs. "Poor puss!" he exclaimed, stroking her fondly on the back; and, after a while, the glossy creature sidled away, as it were reluctantly, from his caressing hand, and lay comfortably coiled up on the hearth-rug, as before. Again he walked to and fro, absorbed in melancholy reflection for some time; from which he was roused, about five, by Mrs. Brown bringing in the spare dinner--which, having barely tasted, he soon dismissed, telling her that he felt a strange shooting pain in his head, and that his eyes seemed sometimes covered by a mist: but that he doubted not his being well enough to keep his appointment at the club--as she knew had been his habit for years. He requested her to have his dressing-room prepared by a quarter to eight, and a coach fetched by eight o'clock precisely. As soon as she had withdrawn, he sat down and wrote the following letter to the oldest and most devoted personal friend he had in the world: