He slowly unfolded the faded sheets, and sadly gazed at the writing. His daughter had risen from her half-recumbent posture, and now bent her graceful head over the leaves. The phantom covered its face with its hands. "What a beautiful manuscript it is, father!" she exclaimed. "The writing is faultless." "It is, indeed," he replied. "Would he had written his life as fairly!" "Read it, father," said Nathalie. "No--but I'll read you a detached passage here and there," he answered, after a pause. "The rest you may read yourself some time, if you wish. It is painful to me. Here's the beginning: "_'My Dear Charles Renton:--Adieu, and adieu. It is Christmas eve, and I am going home. I am soon to exhale from my flesh, like the spirit of a broken flower. Exultemus forever!'_ "It is very wild. His mind was in a fever-craze. Here is a passage that seems to refer to his own experience of life: "_'Your friendship was dear to me. I give you true love. Stocks and returns. You are rich, but I did not wish to be your bounty's pauper. Could I beg? I had my work to do for the world, but oh! the world has no place for souls that can only love and suffer. How many miles to Babylon? Threescore and ten. Not so far--not near so far! Ask starvelings--they know. I wanted to do the world good and the world has killed me, Charles.'_" "It frightens me," said Nathalie, as he paused. "We will read no more," he replied sombrely. "It belongs to the psychology of madness. To me, who knew him, there are gleams of sense in it, and passages where the delirium of the language is only a transparent veil on the meaning. All the remainder is devoted to what he thought important advice to me. But it's all wild and vague. Poor--poor George!" The phantom still hid its face in its hands, as the doctor slowly turned over the pages of the letter. Nathalie, bending over the leaves, laid her finger on the last, and asked--"What are those closing sentences, father? Read them." "Oh! that is what he called his 'last counsel' to me. It's as wild as the rest--tinctured with the prevailing ideas of his career. First he says, '_Farewell--farewell_;' then he bids me take his '_counsel into memory on Christmas day_;' then, after enumerating all the wretched classes he can think of in the country, he says. '_These are your sisters and your brothers--love them all_.' Here he says, '_O friend, strong in wealth for so much good, take my last counsel. In the name of the Saviour, I charge you be true and tender to mankind._' He goes on to bid me '_live and labor for the fallen, the neglected, the suffering, and the poor_;' and finally ends by advising me to help upset any, or all, institutions, laws, and so forth, that bear hardly on the fag-ends of society; and tells me that what he calls 'a service to humanity' is worth more to the doer than a service to anything else, or than anything we can gain from the world. Ah, well! poor George."