"They'll not be able to get over that," he said with a shudder; "and the woman's testimony will be concurrent. It's an odd thing that a man who can do it should care about what people say of him after it's done." He shuddered again as from his dressing-case he took a small phial of medicine which he had purchased at a chemist's for the purpose, and from the drawer in which he had locked it the strychnine-bottle, and placed them side by side on the table. He then leisurely undressed himself, turned the bedclothes back, and rumpled the bed to give it the appearance of having been slept in; then he extinguished the light, took the phial of strychnine in his hand, lifted it to his mouth, drained it, and with one convulsive spring managed to throw himself on the bed. "And he's quite gone, sir?" inquired weeping Mrs. Jobson the next morning of the doctor who had been hastily summoned. "Gone, madam!" said the doctor, who was a snuffy Scotchman of the old school--"he's as dad as Jullius Cæsar. And this is another case o' the meschief of unauthorised parsons doctorin' themsalves and takkin' medicines in the dark." CHAPTER VIII. A last Message. Wordsworth has written of one of those beautiful scenes which he loved so intensely, and with whose loveliness he was so familiar-- "The spot was made by Nature for herself; The travellers know it not. * * * * * * But it is beautiful, And if a man should plant his cottage near, Should sleep beneath the shelter of its trees, And blend its waters with his daily meals, He would so love it, that in his death-hour Its image would survive amongst his thoughts."