istening; but the house was quite still; evidently no one
was coming to disturb him. He stepped softly into the room and locked
the door.

And so he had come to the end. There was nothing to think or trouble
about; an importunate and useless consciousness to get rid of--and
nothing more. It seemed a stupid, aimless kind of thing, somehow.

He had not formed any resolve to commit suicide, nor indeed had he
thought much about it; the thing was quite obvious and inevitable. He
had even no definite idea as to what manner of death to choose; all that
mattered was to be done with it quickly--to have it over and forget. He
had no weapon in the room, not even a pocketknife; but that was of no
consequence--a towel would do, or a sheet torn into strips.

There was a large nail just over the window. That would do; but it must
be firm to bear his weight. He got up on a chair to feel the nail; it
was not quite firm, and he stepped down again and took a hammer from a
drawer. He knocked in the nail, and was about to pull a sheet off his
bed, when he suddenly remembered that he had not said his prayers. Of
course, one must pray before dying; every Christian does that. There are
even special prayers for a departing soul.

He went into the alcove and knelt down before the crucifix. "Almighty
and merciful God----" he began aloud; and with that broke off and said
no more. Indeed, the world was grown so dull that there was nothing left
to pray for--or against. And then, what did Christ know about a trouble
of this kind--Christ, who had never suffered it? He had only been
betrayed, like Bolla; He had never been tricked into betraying.

Arthur rose, crossing himself from old habit. Approaching the table,
he saw lying upon it a letter addressed to him, in Montanelli's
handwriting. It was in pencil:

"My Dear Boy: It is a great disappointment to me that I cannot see you
on the day of your release; but I have been sent for to visit a dying
man. I shall not get back till late at night. Come to me early to-morrow
morning. In great haste,

"L. M."

He put down the letter with a sigh; it did seem hard on the Padre.

How the people had laughed and gossiped in the streets! Nothing was
altered since the days when he had been alive. Not the least little one
of all the daily trifles round him was changed because a human soul, a
living human soul, had been struck down dead. It was all just the same
as before. The water had plashed in the fou