I have received news of the death of old Simon McQuhatty. In my few lucid moments of late I had been thinking of seeking his kindly presence. Now Gossip Death has taken him out across the moor. Now, dear old pagan, he is “Rolled round in earth’s diurnal course With rocks and stones and trees.” November 3d. Antoinette came up this morning with a large cardboard box addressed to Carlotta. The messenger who brought it was waiting downstairs. “I came to Monsieur to know whether I should send it back,” said Antoinette, on the verge of tears. “No,” said I, “leave it here.” From the furrier’s label, I saw that the box contained some furs I had ordered for Carlotta a fortnight ago--she shivered so, poor child, in this wintry climate. “But, Monsieur,” began Antoinette, “the poor angel--” “May want it in heaven,” said I. The good woman stared. “We’ll be like the ancient Egyptians, Antoinette,” I explained, “who placed food and wine and raiment and costly offerings in the tombs of the departed, so that their shades could come and enjoy them for all eternity. We’ll have to make believe, Antoinette, that this is a tomb, for one can’t rear a pyramid in London, though it is a desert sufficiently vast; and the little second floor room is the inner sanctuary where the body lies in silence embalmed with sweet spices and swathed in endless bands of linen.” “But Mademoiselle is not dead?” cried Antoinette, with a shiver. “How can Monsieur talk of such things? It makes me fear, the way Monsieur speaks.” “It makes me fear, too, Antoinette,” said I, gravely. When she had gone I took the box of furs upstairs and laid it unopened on Carlotta’s bed and came away, relocking the door behind me. November 9th. I have formed a great resolution. I have devoted the week to the envisagement of things, and while I lay awake last night the solution came to me as something final and irrevocable. Mistrusting the counsels of the night, when the brain is unduly excited by nervous insomnia, I have applied the test of a day’s cold reason.