tively, two nights ago, "They 've all forgotten me. When a man
retires from the world he begins to die, and the great event, after all,
is only the _coup de grace_ to a long agony of torture." Do write to
him, then; the address is "Glencore Castle, Leenane, Ireland," where, I
suppose, I shall be still a resident for another fortnight to come.

Glencore has just sent for me; but I must close this for the post, or it
will be too late.

Yours ever truly,

George Harcourt.

I open this to say that he sent for me to ask your address,--whether
through the Foreign Office, or direct to Stuttgard. You 'll probably not
hear for some days, for he writes with extreme difficulty, and I leave
it to your wise discretion to write to him or not in the interval.

Poor fellow, he looks very ill to-day. He says that he never slept the
whole night, and that the laudanum he took to induce drowsiness only
excited and maddened him. I counselled a hot jorum of mulled
porter before getting into bed; but he deemed me a monster for the
recommendation, and seemed quite disgusted besides. Could n't you send
him over a despatch? I think such a document from Stuttgard ought to be
an unfailing soporific.

CHAPTER VI. QUEER COMPANIONSHIP

When Harcourt repaired to Glencore's bedroom, where he still lay,
wearied and feverish after a bad night, he was struck by the signs of
suffering in the sick man's face. The cheeks were bloodless and fallen
iq, the lips pinched, and in the eyes there shone that unnatural
brilliancy which results from an over-wrought and over-excited brain.

"Sit down here, George," said he, pointing to a chair beside the bed; "I
want to talk to you. I thought every day that I could muster courage for
what I wish to say; but somehow, when the time arrived, I felt like a
criminal who entreats for a few hours more of life, even though it be a
life of misery."

"It strikes me that you were never less equal to the effort than now,"
said Harcourt, laying his hand on the other's pulse.

"Don't believe my pulse, George," said Glencore, smiling faintly. "The
machine may work badly, but it has wonderful holding out. I 've gone
through enough," added he, gloomily, "to kill most men, and here I am
still, breathing and suffering."

"This place doesn't suit you, Glencore. There are not above two days in
the month you can venture to take the air."

"And where would you have me go, sir?" he broke in, fiercely. "Would you
advise Pa