eard him say this: "He seems to halt.
Yes! but it is only seeming."

Then for ten minutes he was very still. Then he gave an uneasy
movement, and half raised himself.

"He is going," said the doctor.

Suddenly he opened his eyes. "All three," he said. They were his last
words. The curate began to say a prayer; we none of us interrupted
him. There was a convulsive movement, and all was over. The doctor
went out. We cried like children by the bed.

RECAPITULATION

I had rather intended to say no more; to let the Life speak for
itself. I had imagined that a moral destroyed, rather than enhanced,
the effect of a story; that a descriptive catalogue rather interfered
with one's appreciation of a picture than otherwise; but a friend to
whom I showed my little collection, and to whose opinion I greatly
defer, expressed surprise at the abruptness of the close. "You seem
to leave the end," he said, "tangled and unravelled; one wants the
threads just gathered together again." So I will try and discharge
this task.

The difficulty is not to arrive at a deterministic theory of life for
most men. Anyone who will take things as he finds them, and fairly
come to a conclusion about them, not hampered by fetters of authority
or tradition, but independently arriving at his own solution, must
inevitably arrive at this; there is no logical escape. But the
difficulty lies in the application of this determinism to life. So
many people persist in saying that it is only a logical account of
the existence of the world, only an ontological solution, not a
life-philosophy. The best man, who can not confute it, only says
mournfully that it will not do for an ethical system; nothing good
can come out of it in practice.

The writer is one of those who believe that truth, however painful,
is essentially practical. That truth when seen must be applied, must
be worked out into life, is his cherished idea. But he, as much as
anyone, has felt the usual (alas!) and bitter consequences of
determinism; has seen the victim of the thought sit, as it were,
with his hands tied; has seen the determinist sink into temporary
fatalism, and has seen effort relaxed and ideals growing hourly dim.

He was beginning to suffer in this manner himself when, at Cambridge,
he met Arthur; and met in him not only an inspiring acquaintance, an
encouraging friend, but a man who was far ahead of him on the same
path where he had only ventured to imprint a few tr