till it looked like a skeleton; the face was
blackened and all withered, and the bony hands were clinched tight. It
was evidently some sailor who had suffered shipwreck in these
frightful solitudes, and had drifted here to starve to death in this
appalling wilderness. It was a sight which seemed ominous of our own
fate, and Agnew's boasted hope, which had so long upheld him, now sank
down into a despair as deep as my own. What room was there now for
hope, or how could we expect any other fate than this?

At length I began to search the pockets of the deceased.

"What are you doing?" asked Agnew, in a hoarse voice.

"I'm trying to find out who he is," I said. "Perhaps there may be
papers."

As I said this I felt something in the breast-pocket of his jacket,
and drew it forth. It was a leather pocket-book, mouldy and rotten
like the clothing. On opening it, it fell to pieces. There was nothing
in it but a piece of paper, also mouldy and rotten. This I unfolded
with great care, and saw writing there, which, though faded, was still
legible. It was a letter, and there were still signs of long and
frequent perusals, and marks, too, which looked as though made by
tears--tears, perhaps of the writer, perhaps of the reader: who can
tell? I have preserved this letter ever since, and I now fasten it
here upon this sheet of my manuscript.

THE LETTER.

"Bristol April 20. 1820.

"my darling tom

"i writ you these few lines in hast i don like youar gon a walen an in
the south sea dont go darlin tom or mebbe ill never se you agin for
ave bad drems of you darlin tom an im afraid so don go my darlin tom
but come back an take anoth ship for America baby i as wel as ever but
mises is pa an as got a new tooth an i think yo otnt go a walen o
darlin tom * * * sea as the wages was i in New York an better go thar
an id like to go ther for good for they gives good wages in America. O
come back my Darlin tom and take me to America an the baby an weel all
live an love an di together

"Your loving wife Polley Reed."

I began to read this, but there came a lump in my throat, and I had to
stop. Agnew leaned on my shoulder, and we both read it in silence. He
rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes and drew a long breath. Then
he walked away for a little distance, and I put the letter carefully
away in my own pocket-book. After a little while Agnew came back.

"More," said he, "do you remember any of the burial-service?"

I unde