"I do not know when his spirit passed away. We sat up late last night, and he seemed in his usual health, but weak. He made no complaint, but he must have had a premonition of what was hastening to him, for he talked to me of the life beyond this, and dwelt upon it with hope and rapture. We sat in the dark; he would not have a light. Ah, me! I must have been blind and deaf not to have guessed that he believed his end to be approaching when he spoke so much of you, and desired me to give you his dear love and his heartfelt wishes for a bright and happy life. 'With me, father,' I whispered. 'Yes, my daughter, with you,' he answered. 'Kingsley could not be happy without you.' Ah, how glad I was to hear him say that! It proved that he had faith and confidence in you, and yet I might have been warned of what was to come by his solemn voice and by his addressing me as his daughter. He had never done so before. It was always: 'My dear,' or 'Nansie, child,' or 'My dear Nansie.' Ah, Kingsley, if you had heard what he said you could never have forgotten it. 'Life is a breath,' he said, 'a dream, and its end should be welcomed with joy, for it opens the door to a higher, holier life. Happy is the mortal who can approach that threshold with a consciousness that he has done no wrong to his fellow-creature.' And then he said that there should be no vain thirstings and yearnings for knowledge that was wisely hidden from us, but that every human being should strive to keep shining within him three stars, faith, duty, and love. I cannot now recall all that he said, but I know that his last dear conversation with me left me better than I had been, and that with all my heart and soul I thank him for his gentle teaching. "It was past midnight when he went to bed, and I intended then to continue my letter to you, but he called to me before I commenced, and asked me to sit by his side. I did so, holding his hand, until two in the morning, and all this time he lay quite quiet and still, sometimes opening his eyes and smiling upon me. At length he said, 'Kiss me, my dear,' and I stooped and kissed him. Then he bade me go to bed, and, indeed, I was glad to obey him, Kingsley, for my eyes were closing. I awoke at my usual hour this morning, and went to him. He had not stirred. Ah, how still and beautiful he was! I spoke to him and he did not reply. I called louder, and still he did not speak. Then, smitten with a dreadful fear, I placed my hand on his heart; it was pulseless, and I knew that my dear, dear father had passed away. "I can write no more. I have much to do, and the last duties of love will occupy every moment of my time. I shall have him taken to Godalming, where I shall be if you can come to me. If that is not possible, I shall go after the funeral to my uncle in London, whose address you have. There you will find me. Pity me, Kingsley, and do not leave me long alone. I have only you in the world. Believe me.