“I cannot leave him like this. I shall send for a nurse and doctor, and take care of him. He has no friends here.” “Bully for you!” I said. “If he's out of money I'll help you pay the bills.” We went away a little mystified by this behavior on the part of Muggs. We were leaving next day for the south, and Mrs. Mullet came to say good-by to us. “How is your patient?” I asked. “He was delirious all night, and dictated letters to me as if I had been his stenographer. I took them down with a pencil. I have brought two of them for you to read. I do not understand them; perhaps you will know what they mean.” The first was addressed to a man in Mexico, and it said: _Dear Mack,--At last my ship has come in, and I am doing what I have longed to do for many years, and what I have dreamed of doing a thousand times. I inclose a check for all that I owe you, with interest. Forgive me. Please forgive me. I didn't know what I was doing. I expected to return it within a week, but I lost it all. I want you to tell every one that knows me that I am an honest man._ The second letter was to the Honorable Whitfield Norris, and it said: _Dear Sir,--At last I am able to do what I have wanted to do for years. I inclose a check for all the money you have given me, with interest to date. Please send me a receipt for the same. I always intended to make good and live honest, and I want you to think well of me, for I think that you are the greatest man I ever met._ All this puzzled me at first, and I went at once with Mrs. Mullet to Muggs's room. The sick man's fever had abated, and his head was clear. “You have been dictating a letter to Norris,” I said. “What letter?” he asked. “Didn't you dictate a letter to Norris last night?” “No,” he answered, sadly. “Have you any money?” I asked. “I have made a little money out of an old investment in a copper-mine,” he answered, in a faint voice. “It has begun to pay, and they have sent me eighteen hundred dollars. There's eleven hundred left. It's in the Banca d'Italia. In my book you'll find a check for that two hundred dollars. It's on the bureau there.” “You gave me that,” I said. “Did I?” he whispered, and was sound asleep in a few seconds. I returned to Mrs. Mullet, full of sober thought. “Those letters are the voice of his soul,” I said. “It really wants to pay up and be honest.” She saw my meaning and wept, and said, as soon as she could speak: “Perhaps, in the sight of God, he has already paid his debts.” “An honorable delirium isn't quite enough,” I said, “but it does show that his soul is acquiring good habits.” “I'm so happy that you think so,” she answered. “Yes, I'd rather have him now with all his past than any count I have seen in Italy. There are all kinds of pasts, but Muggs is ashamed of his--that's something! Of course it isn't safe to jump at conclusions, but it looks as if the love of a decent woman had done a good deal for him.”