lay dying.

"Tom," said my uncle, "Tom, come closer."

Tom bent over the bed.

"I am leaving you two boys without friends in this world. You have
friends in Lizard Town, but Lizard Town is a small world, Tom.
I ought to have sent you to London before, but kept putting off the
parting. If one could only foresee--could only foresee."

He raised himself slightly on his elbow, and continued with pain--

"You will go to Guy's, and Jasper, I hope, may go with you.
Be friends, boys; you will want friendship in this world. It will be
a struggle, for there is barely enough for both. But it is best to
share equally; _she_ would have wished that. She was always planning
that. I am doing it badly, I know, but she would have done it
better."

The chill December sun came stealing in and illumined the sick man's
face with a light that was the shadow of heaven. The strange doctor
moved to the blind. My uncle's voice arrested him--

"No, no. Leave it up. You will have to pull it down very soon--only
a few moments now. Tom, come closer. You have been a good boy, Tom,
a good boy, though"--with a faint smile--"a little trying at times.
Ah, but she forgave you, Tom. She loved you dearly; she will tell me
so--when we meet."

My uncle's gaze began to wander, as though anticipating that meeting;
but he roused himself and said--

"Kiss me, Tom, and send Jasper to me."

Bitterly weeping, Tom made room, and I bent over the bed.

"Ah, Jasper, it is you. Kiss me, boy. I have been telling Tom that
you must share alike. God has been stern with you, Jasper, to His
own good ends--His own good ends. Only be patient, it will come
right at the last. How dark it is getting; pull up the blind."

"The blind is up, uncle."

"Ah, yes, I forgot. I have often thought--do you remember that day--
reading your father's paper--and the key?"

"Yes, uncle."

"I have often thought--about that key--which you flung into the
fire--and I picked out--your father Ezekiel's key--keep it.
Closer, Jasper, closer--"

I bent down until my ear almost touched his lips.

"I have--often--thought--we were wrong that night--and perhaps--
meant--search--in . . ."

For quite a minute I bent to catch the next word, then looking on his
face withdrew my arm and laid the grey head back upon the pillow.

My uncle was dead.

So it happened that a few weeks after Tom and I, having found Uncle
Loveday's savings equally divided between us, started f