“Of course, you know,” Dodson continued, pursuing this new idea, which, remote as it was, seemed to afford the only prospect of obtaining two hundred pounds, “I shall have to pitch a tale about it to the dealers. I must fix up some sort of a history, you know, about its being found in the tomb of the Pharaohs, or its being the very identical sheepskin upon which the Scriptures were written. But you must leave that to me. I shall go round and see Temple and Ward to-morrow, and you can lay to it, old man, that I shall have thought of something by then. But, in the meantime, if you really do believe that miracles happen--I wish I could believe it myself--you had better think about it, old man, as much as you possibly can, for I’ve read somewhere that when you do want a thing to happen, it is a good plan to keep your mind on it all the time.” Before the old man could consent to a suggestion which he did not know how to derive the power to sanction, the voice of him who sat in the little room was heard to summon James Dodson. “Why don’t you come to me?” said the voice from within. “I can hear the voice of my friend. Why don’t you come to me with the printed sheets?” In some trepidation Dodson obeyed a summons, which sounded almost imperious upon the lips of him from whom it proceeded. “The printed sheets,” said the dying poet, stretching out his hands. “Please place the printed sheets into my hands. I would have my father read what is printed there, because this little treatise must go forth without fault or sully.” “They have not started to print it yet, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson dismally. “Why--why is that?” cried the dying poet, with a consternation that was almost petulant. “Do they not know that a term has been placed to my days, that the sands of life are running out in the glass?” “Yes, old boy, they know all about that,” said Jimmy Dodson; “they know all about that, and--and----” “And--and!” said the stricken poet with an imperiousness that was regal. “Are these the words that are brought to me by one whom I love?” In a controlled excitement, that was almost stern, the stricken man raised himself in his chair. “Your arm, Jimmy,” he said, with a look of such authority that it filled the unhappy Dodson with dismay. “Lead me to the printers. I must speak to them myself.” The poet sank back in his chair in the tender arms of his friend. The little strength that remained to him was no longer sufficient to bear his frame. “Yes, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson, “be quite calm, and sit there quietly. There is no need for you to excite yourself. I--I will go round to the printers early to-morrow and--and I--I will tell them just what you say. I will see that they hurry, although by nature, old boy, printers, as you know, are dreadfully slow.” “So be it,” said the poet, with an expression of noble magnanimity upon his beautiful face; “do not think that I reproach you--it would break my heart.”