"You're a cool hand, any way," said Jack, sulkily. "Is this the way you take a matter of life and death?" "Life and death?" I repeated. "Life and death!" said Jack. "Yes, life and death. Why, see here, Macrorie, I'll be hanged if I don't believe that you've forgotten every word I told you about my scrape. If that's the case, all I can say is, that I'm not the man to force my confidences where they are so very unimportant." And Jack made a move toward the door. "Stop, Jack," said I. "The fact is, I've been queer for a couple of days. I had a beastly time on the river. Talk about life and death! Why, man, it was the narrowest scratch with me you ever saw. I didn't go to Point Levi at all." "The deuce you didn't!" "No; I pulled up at Montmorency." "The deuce you did! How's that?" "Oh, never mind; I'll tell you some other time. At any rate, if I seem dazed or confused, don't notice it. I'm coming round. I'll only say this, that I've lost a little of my memory, and am glad I didn't lose my life. But go on. I'm up to it now, Jack. You wrote to Number Three, proposing to elope, and were staking your existence on her answer. You wished me to order a head-stone for you at Anderson's, Four feet by eighteen inches, with nothing on it but the name and date, and not a word about the virtues, et cetera. There, you see, my memory is all right at last. And now, old boy, what does she say? When did you get it?" "I got it this morning," said Jack. "It was a long delay. She is always prompt. Something must have happened to delay her. I was getting quite wild, and would have put an end to myself if it hadn't been for Louie. And then, you know, the widow's getting to be a bit of a bore. Look here--what do you think of my selling out, buying a farm in Minnesota, and taking little Louie there?" "What!" I cried. "Look here, Jack, whatever you do, don't, for Heaven's sake, get poor little Louie entangled in your affairs." "Oh, don't you fret," said Jack, dolefully. "No fear about her. She's all right, so far.--But, see here, there's the letter." And saying this, he tossed over to me the letter from "Number Three," and, filling a pipe, began smoking vigorously. The letter was a singular one. It was highly romantic, and full of devotion. The writer, however, declined to accept of Jack's proposition. She pleaded her father; she couldn't leave him. She implored Jack to wait, and finally subscribed herself his till death. But the name which she signed was "Stella," and nothing more; and this being evidently a pet name or a _nom de plume_, threw no light whatever upon her real personality. "Well," said Jack, after I had read it over about nine times, "what do you think of that?" "It gives you some reprieve, at any rate," said I.