In the early days of our intercourse
we had been for the first and only time on the verge of a quarrel, when
I had asked (as a favor to myself) to be allowed to provide for him in
my will.

"It is because I am poor," he explained, "that I refuse to profit by
your kindness--though I feel it gratefully."

I failed to understand him--and said so plainly.

"You will understand this," he resumed; "I should never recover my sense
of degradation, if a mercenary motive on my side was associated with
our friendship. Don't say it's impossible! You know as well as I do that
appearances would be against me, in the eyes of the world. Besides, I
don't want money; my own small income is enough for me. Make me your
executor if you like, and leave me the customary present of five hundred
pounds. If you exceed that sum I declare on my word of honor that I
will not touch one farthing of it." He took my hand, and pressed it
fervently. "Do me a favor," he said. "Never let us speak of this again!"

I understood that I must yield--or lose my friend.

In now making my will, I accordingly appointed Rothsay one of my
executors, on the terms that he had prescribed. The minor legacies
having been next duly reduced to writing, I left the bulk of my fortune
to public charities.

My lawyer laid the fair copy of the will on my table.

"A dreary disposition of property for a man of your age," he said, "I
hope to receive a new set of instructions before you are a year older."

"What instructions?" I asked.

"To provide for your wife and children," he answered.

My wife and children! The idea seemed to be so absurd that I burst out
laughing. It never occurred to me that there could be any absurdity from
my own point of view.

I was sitting alone, after my legal adviser had taken his leave, looking
absently at the newly-engrossed will, when I heard a sharp knock at the
house-door which I thought I recognized. In another minute Rothsay's
bright face enlivened my dull room. He had returned from the
Mediterranean that morning.

"Am I interrupting you?" he asked, pointing to the leaves of manuscript
before me. "Are you writing a book?"

"I am making my will."

His manner changed; he looked at me seriously.

"Do you remember what I said, when we once talked of your will?" he
asked. I set his doubts at rest immediately--but he was not quite
satisfied yet. "Can't you put your will away?" he suggested. "I hate the
sight of anything that reminds