e of future infection.
John Girdlestone stepped softly across to the bedside and sat down by
his dying friend.

The sufferer was lying on his back, apparently unconscious of all around
him. His glazed eyes were turned upwards towards the ceiling, and his
parched lips were parted, while the breath came in quick, spasmodic
gasps. Even the unskilled eye of the merchant could tell that the angel
of death was hovering very near him. With an ungainly attempt at
tenderness, which had something pathetic in it, he moistened a sponge
and passed it over the sick man's feverish brow. The latter turned his
restless head round, and a gleam of recognition and gratitude came into
his eyes.

"I knew that you would come," he said.

"Yes. I came the moment that I got your message."

"I am glad that you are here," the sufferer continued with a sigh of
relief. From the brightened expression upon his pinched face, it seemed
as if, even now in the jaws of death, he leaned upon his old
schoolfellow and looked to him for assistance. He put a wasted hand
above the counterpane and laid it upon Girdlestone's.

"I wish to speak to you, John," he said. "I am very weak. Can you hear
what I say?"

"Yes, I hear you."

"Give me a spoonful from that bottle. It clears my mind for a time.
I have been making my will, John."

"Yes," said the merchant, replacing the medicine bottle.

"The lawyer made it this morning. Stoop your head and you will hear me
better. I have less than fifty thousand. I should have done better had
I retired years ago."

"I told you so," the other broke in gruffly.

"You did--you did. But I acted for the best. Forty thousand I leave to
my dear daughter Kate."

A look of interest came over Girdlestone's face. "And the balance?" he
asked.

"I leave that to be equally divided among the various London
institutions for educating the poor. We were both poor boys ourselves,
John, and we know the value of such schools."

Girdlestone looked perhaps a trifle disappointed. The sick man went on
very slowly and painfully--

"My daughter will have forty thousand pounds. But it is so tied up that
she can neither touch it herself nor enable any one else to do so until
she is of age. She has no friends, John, and no relations, save only my
cousin, Dr. George Dimsdale. Never was a girl left more lonely and
unprotected. Take her, I beg of you, and bring her up under your own
eye. Treat her as though she were y