"I haven't opened the door yet," said Mr. Wheatley. "Yes, here it is." "Bring it here then, and the key that lies beside it. Heaven! how my head swims. There, take that to Bessy Davenport. Tell her I sent it to her with my dying hands. Tell her I am sorry for all I have done--very sorry; that I have often been sorry, but that I would not let myself think so. There, take it. She will find in it what puts all questions about Aunt Bab's property at an end. Now, doctor, tell me, upon your soul, am I dying? Can nothing be done to save me? If you could extract the ball?" "It would be no use," answered the surgeon. "It has got in amongst the bones of the hip-joint, and your face shows me at once that mortification has set in. There was a chance yesterday, if you would but have been quiet, and abstained from drinking: to-day there is none." "Well, then, all of you leave me to die like an old fox in his hole," said Mr. Thornton. "Stay, stay, Uncle Jack. You turn to, and see what you can do for my soul. We won't think of the body any more. There! Go the rest of you. I don't want to hear you talk any more. My time is but short, and I must do what I can with it." CHAPTER XLIV. "And so goes out a bad life," said Mr. Wheatley, as we mounted our horses and rode away. "It has been compared to the end of a tallow-candle by somebody, I don't know who--in fact, I never can recollect who it is that has written anything. I can remember the thought; but I cannot recollect the words, nor trace 'back to it's cloud that lightning of the mind.' Well, it is strange to see how men misuse opportunities. This fellow, this Thornton here, set out in life with the very brightest prospects; friends, fortune, relations of commanding influence, talents, education--everything but conduct." "And principle," I interposed. "Ay, and principle," said Mr. Wheatley, musing very deeply. "I have come to that conclusion myself, Sir Richard. At one time, I doubted it; for often, when I acted honestly--by accident, of course by accident--ha! ha! ha!--I was diabolically cheated. I was not successful. Principle did nothing for me; I saw the rogue triumphant, the honest man vanquished. I perceived that in worldly wisdom I had acted like a child, and I said to myself, 'Conduct is fate.' But since has come the question, What is conduct? and I am inclined to believe that, in the end, here, even here, honesty is the best policy, principle is the surest guide, and, like the mariner who steers his bark by the compass and the star, though we may look ahead for the breakers or the reefs, the permanent guides to our course are aloft." Sublime truth was clad in his homely language, and we were both silent for several minutes.