d
appearance, that the doctors had told him truly. He was not used to the
sight of those who were very sick, but soon, to an inexperienced
observer, the signs of approaching death were plain. Tom, in the full
vigor of perfect health, regarded his old companion with awe and pity.

"How do you feel this morning, Jacob?" he asked.

"I am very weak," said the old man, faintly.

"Are you in much pain?"

"No; the pain has gone away. If I can get stronger I shall soon be out
again."

He did not realize that this relief from pain was only a sign that
Nature had succumbed at last, and that Death had gained the victory.
Tom hated to dispel the illusion, but it must be done.

"Jacob," he said, slowly and sadly, "I have got something to tell you."

"What is it?" said the old man, in alarm.

"It is something that the doctor told me just now."

"He--he didn't say I was going to die?" asked Jacob, agitated.

"Yes; he said you could not live."

A low and feeble wail burst from the old man's lips.

"I can't die," he said. "I'm not ready. I'm only sixty-five. He--he may
be mistaken. Don't you think I look better this morning?"

"You look very sick."

"I don't want to die," wailed the old man. "It's only a little while
since I was a boy. Did--did he say how long I could live?"

"He said you might live forty-eight hours."

"Forty-eight hours--only two days--are you sure he said that?"

"Yes, Jacob. I wish I could do anything to make you live longer."

"You're a good boy, Tom. I--I'm afraid I haven't been a good friend to
you."

"Yes, you have, Jacob. We have always been good friends."

"But I helped do you a great wrong. I hope you will forgive me."

"I don't know what it is, but I will forgive you, Jacob."

"Then, perhaps, Heaven will forgive me, too. I'll do all I can. I'll
leave you all my money."

Tom did not pay much regard to this promise, for he did not know that
Jacob had any money beyond a few shillings, or possibly a few dollars.

"Thank you, Jacob," he said, "but I can earn enough to pay my expenses
very well. Don't trouble yourself about me."

"There's no one else to leave it to," said the old man. "It isn't much,
but you shall have it."

Here he drew out, with trembling fingers, the key suspended to a piece
of twine which, through all his sickness, he had carried around his
neck. He held it in his hand a moment, and a spasm convulsed his pale
features. To give it up seemed like parting with life