a barge, and I began to tell you one of my silly stories, and broke off

to say I loved you? That was the beginning, and now here is the end.

When you have read this letter, you will go round and kiss them all

good-bye, my father and mother, and the children, one by one, and poor

uncle; And tell them all to forget me, and forget me yourself. Turn

the key in the door; let no thought of me return; be done with the poor

ghost that pretended he was a man and stole your love. Scorn of myself

grinds in me as I write. I should tell you I am well and happy, and want

for nothing. I do not exactly make money, or I should send a remittance;

but I am well cared for, have friends, live in a beautiful place and

climate, such as we have dreamed of together, and no pity need be wasted

on me. In such places, you understand, it is easy to live, and live

well, but often hard to make sixpence in money. Explain this to my

father, he will understand. I have no more to say; only linger, going

out, like an unwilling guest. God in heaven bless you. Think of me to

the last, here, on a bright beach, the sky and sea immoderately blue,

and the great breakers roaring outside on a barrier reef, where a little

isle sits green with palms. I am well and strong. It is a more pleasant

way to die than if you were crowding about me on a sick-bed. And yet I

am dying. This is my last kiss. Forgive, forget the unworthy.'

So far he had written, his paper was all filled, when there returned a

memory of evenings at the piano, and that song, the masterpiece of love,

in which so many have found the expression of their dearest thoughts.

'Einst, O wunder!' he added. More was not required; he knew that in his

love's heart the context would spring up, escorted with fair images and

harmony; of how all through life her name should tremble in his ears,

The Ebb-Tide