ever, and had him taken to the
hospital. It appears that he had always cherished a strange affection
for me, though I had grown away from him; and in his wild ravings he
constantly mentioned my name, and they sent for me. That was our first
meeting after two years. I found him in the hospital--dying. Heaven can
witness that I felt all my old love for him return then, but he was
delirious, and never recognized me. And, Nathalie, his hair--it had been
coal-black, and he wore it very long, he wouldn't let them cut it
either; and as they knew no skill could save him, they let him have his
way--his hair was then as white as snow! God alone knows what that brain
must have suffered to blanch hair which had been as black as the wing of
a raven!"

He covered his eyes with his hand, and sat silently. The fingers of the
phantom still shone dimly on his head, and its white locks drooped above
him, like a weft of light.

"What was his name, father?" asked the pitying girl.

"George Feval. The very name sounds like fever. He died on Christmas
eve, fifteen years ago this night. It was on his death-bed, while his
mind was tossing on a sea of delirious fancies, that he wrote me this
long letter--for to the last, I was uppermost in his thoughts. It is a
wild, incoherent thing, of course--a strange mixture of sense and
madness. But I have kept it as a memorial of him. I have not looked at
it for years; but this morning I found it among my papers, and somehow
it has been in my mind all day."

He slowly unfolded the faded sheets, and sadly gazed at the writing. His
daughter had risen from her half-recumbent posture, and now bent her
graceful head over the leaves. The phantom covered its face with its
hands.

"What a beautiful manuscript it is, father!" she exclaimed. "The writing
is faultless."

"It is, indeed," he replied. "Would he had written his life as fairly!"

"Read it, father," said Nathalie.

"No--but I'll read you a detached passage here and there," he answered,
after a pause. "The rest you may read yourself some time, if you wish.
It is painful to me. Here's the beginning:

"_'My Dear Charles Renton:--Adieu, and adieu. It is Christmas eve, and I
am going home. I am soon to exhale from my flesh, like the spirit of a
broken flower. Exultemus forever!'_

"It is very wild. His mind was in a fever-craze. Here is a passage that
seems to refer to his own experience of life:

"_'Your friendship was dear to me. I give you tr