“Very well, old boy,” he stammered, “I--I will bring you one of these reviews--and--and you shall hear for yourself what they think about this marvellous work of yours.” “Bring it to-morrow evening at eight o’clock,” said the poet in a voice that could hardly be heard. “I will wait until then.” “I will not fail,” promised his friend. As Dodson burst out of the shop in a paroxysm of wild despair, he prayed that when he came on the morrow, this mighty spirit which contended with death should have yielded already. LVIII When on the following evening the tap was heard upon the shutters, and it was answered by the white-haired old man, it was a haggard, unkempt, wild-eyed figure that stood upon the threshold, trembling in every limb. “Does he still live?” was the first question uttered, yet James Dodson had hardly the power to frame it. “He lives, and he awaits you,” said the old man. The haggard figure on the threshold gave a groan of anguish. “Is--is he still in his right mind?” asked the unhappy Dodson. “The noble mind of Achilles was never so valiant,” said the old man, “as now that the sands of life have so nearly run.” Dodson reeled as he entered the shop. “I’ve been praying all day that he would be taken,” he said hoarsely in the ear of the old man. “You see, I’ve done my best--but--but I’m no scholar. I--I’ve not had the education. I’ve got a chap I know to give me a hand--he reviews novels for _The Talisman_. It was the best I could do in the time. We’ve laid it in all we knew--better than Shakespeare, better than Homer, better than the coves who did the Bible--oh, I tell you we’ve not spared an ounce of the paint! But you must read it quickly, because you know, although the sense is all right--absolutely the greatest thing of its kind in the world, and so on--it’s a bit weak in places, and the poor old boy is so bright these days that he might find out what we’ve done--and if he should do that he might understand it all--and--and--if--he--understood--it--all----” Dodson covered his eyes with his hands. As for the last time he tottered through the shop and crossed the threshold of the little room, his powerful stunted frame seemed to be overborne. The poet still kept his chair beside the bright hearth. The grey hue of dissolution was already upon his cheeks. But to that friend who for the last time encountered their gaze, it seemed that those orbs which so long had been sightless, had in their last extremity been accorded the power of vision. The prey of pity and terror, Dodson averted his gaze helplessly. “You have brought the verdict, faithful one?” said the poet; and the young man understood, even in the pass to which he himself was come, how greatly the noble voice transcended in its quality all that had ever sounded in his ears. “I have, old boy,” said Dodson defiantly, yet his own voice was like the croak of a raven. “Begin, O my father,” said the dying poet.