By the time it was brought to him, the sufferer was fast
declining; with some difficulty his dim eye discovered the place where,
amidst the clumsy pothooks of the parishioners, the large clear hand of
the old friend, and the trembling characters of the bride, looked forth,
distinguished.

"Extract this for me, will you?" said Caleb. Mr. Jones obeyed.

"Now, just write above the extract:

"'Sir,--By Mr. Price's desire I send you the inclosed. He is too ill to
write himself. But he bids me say that he has never been quite the same
man since you left him; and that, if he should not get well again, still
your kind letter has made him easier in his mind."

Caleb stopped.

"Go on."

"That is all I have to say: sign your name, and put the address--here
it is. Ah, the letter," he muttered, "must not lie about! If anything
happens to me, it may get him into trouble."

And as Mr. Jones sealed his communication, Caleb feebly stretched his
wan hand, held the letter which had "come too late" over the flame of
the candle. As the blazing paper dropped on the carpetless floor, Mr.
Jones prudently set thereon the broad sole of his top-boot, and the
maidservant brushed the tinder into the grate.

"Ah, trample it out:--hurry it amongst the ashes. The last as the rest,"
said Caleb, hoarsely. "Friendship, fortune, hope, love, life--a little
flame, and then--and then--"

"Don't be uneasy--it's quite out!" said Mr. Jones. Caleb turned his face
to the wall. He lingered till the next day, when he passed insensibly
from sleep to death. As soon as the breath was out of his body, Mr.
Jones felt that his duty was discharged, that other duties called
him home. He promised to return to read the burial-service over the
deceased, gave some hasty orders about the plain funeral, and was
turning from the room, when he saw the letter he had written by Caleb's
wish, still on the table. "I pass the post-office--I'll put it in," said
he to the weeping servant; "and just give me that scrap of paper." So
he wrote on the scrap, "P. S. He died this morning at half-past twelve,
without pain.--M. J.;" and not taking the trouble to break the seal,
thrust the final bulletin into the folds of the letter, which he then
carefully placed in his vast pocket, and safely transferred to the post.
And that was all that the jovial and happy man, to whom the letter was
addressed, ever heard of the last days of his college friend.

The living, vacant by the death of