presentiment that it would contain a decree of my destiny. This last message from him, coming as it were from the tomb, revived in my heart the grief which had hardly yet been allayed. At last, trembling all the while, I tore open the envelope. These were its contents:—

"My Dear Boy,

"When you read this, I shall have done with this world. Please me by not giving way too much to your grief, and act like a man! You know my ideas about death: I have never allowed myself to be prejudiced into regarding it as an evil, convinced as I have been, that it is nothing but the transition which leads us to a superior state of existence. Adopt this view, and do not cry over me like a child. I have lived my life; now it is your turn. My desire is, that this old friend of yours should be cherished in your memory: you shall join him with you in your happiness, by believing that he takes part in it.

"Now let us have a talk.

"I leave you all my property, desiring to create no business complications for you: my will is drawn up in proper form, and you will enter into possession of your inheritance, which, you may rest assured, is a pretty handsome one. There is, however, one last wish of mine for the fulfilment of which I rely simply upon your affection, feeling sure that between us there is no need of more complicated provisions for ensuring its execution.

"I have a daughter, who has always shared with you my dearest affections. If I have kept this second paternity a secret from you, I have done so because circumstances might occur which would render useless the revelation which I am now approaching. My daughter had a legal father who had the right to reclaim her when sixteen years of age; she is free now, her legal father is dead, she will soon be seventeen, and I entrust her to your charge. Her name is Anna Campbell, she lives at Paris at the Convent of Les Oiseaux, where she is completing her education. Her only relation is an aunt, her mother's sister, Madame Saulnier by name, who lives at No. 20, Rue Barbet de Jony. It will be a sufficient introduction for you to call on this lady and tell her your name. She is aware that I have appointed you moral guardian to my daughter, and that it is you who will take my place. In short, she knows all my intentions.

"I underline these words, for they sum up my fondest aspirations. I have brought up Anna with the view of making her your wife, and thus dividing my fortune between you; and I rely upon you to carry out this arrangement. If marriage is for a man but a small matter, it is for a woman the most serious event in life. With you, I am confident that the dear girl will never be unhappy, and that is the thing of most importance. If I never return from this last voyage, you will have plenty of time to enjoy your bachelor's life; but I count upon your friendship to render me this little service by marrying her when the right time arrives. At present she is scarcely full-grown, and I think it will be best for you to wait one or two years. I can assure you her mother had a fine figure. You will find their portraits in one of the velvet frames in the drawer of my desk. (Don't make a mistake: it is the one numbered 9.)

"Now that this matter is settled, it only remains for me to give you one last injunction. If Férandet has followed my instructions, as I suppose, he will have burnt a paper in your presence. This was a second will, by which my daughter Anna Campbell would have been appointed my universal legatee, had you not been living. So long as all happened in the right order, you surviving me, you will understand I should not have wished to complicate your affairs, by leaving you confronted with a lot of legal formalities and intricacies. Such would be the consequence of a female minor who is a foreigner inheriting jointly with you: this would have plunged you into a veritable mire of technicalities, restrictions, registrations, and goodness knows what. Nevertheless, it is necessary to provide fully for the possibility of an accident arising to you before your marriage with Anna. Our property would go in that case to collaterals ... and God only knows from how many quarters of the world these would not be forthcoming! As I wish my fortune to remain with my children, it is indispensable that you should not forget to make testamentary dispositions in favour of your cousin, so that the whole property may go to her in the event of your death, without any more dispute than there has been in your own case. I leave this matter in your hands. You will find at my bankers all the indications of surnames, Christian names, and descriptions which you will require to enumerate, on the first page of my private ledger, where the account which was opened for her commences, and yours also, forming a separate banking account for you two. Madame Saulnier is accustomed to draw what is required for her: therefore, until your marriage, it is unnecessary for you to occupy yourself with this detail—all you have to do is to confirm her credit.

"Now that we have settled this matter, my dear boy, go ahead! I do not need, I am sure, to remind you to think occasionally of your old uncle: I know you well, and that satisfies me. I thank you for what you have been to me, and bless you from the bottom of my heart!

"Come, don't give way, old fellow: I am in Heaven, my soul is free and rejoicing in the glories of the Infinite. Is there anything in this for you to mourn over? Farewell."

After reading this letter, my dear Louis, need I tell you that I did the contrary to what my poor uncle bade me, and that I gave way to my grief. The tears streamed down my cheeks, my heart was breaking, and I could no longer see this last word, "Farewell," as I pressed the letter to my lips.

Such a mixture of tenderness and elevation of tone, such touching solicitude to console my grief, such boundless confidence in my love and fidelity! I felt crushed with my grief, proud only to think that I was worthy of the generosity with which this noble-hearted man was overwhelming me, prodigal as a father in his kindness. It seemed to me at that moment that I had never loved him enough, and the grief at his loss mingled itself with something like remorse. As if he were able hear me, I swore to him that I would live for the accomplishment of his wishes: from the depths of my soul, indeed, I felt certain that he saw me.

When the flow of my tears had ceased, I did not want to tarry a moment in the accomplishment of his last behests. I ran to his bed-chamber, opened his desk, and found the two portraits. One, a valuable miniature, represents a woman of twenty-five, the other is a photograph of Anna Campbell at the age of fifteen. Although not so pretty as her mother, perhaps, she has a charming childlike face; the poor little thing felt uncomfortable, no doubt, when they made her sit, for her expression is rather sulky and unnatural. Still she gives promise of being attractive when she has passed the awkward age. I felt myself suddenly possessed by a sentiment of affection for this unknown cousin, whose guardian I had become and whose husband I am to be. Upon this cold picture I repeated to my uncle the oath to obey his wishes; then, taking up a pen, I wrote a will appointing Anna Campbell the universal legatee of all the property which my uncle left us.

But one part of my inheritance, the most remarkable and the least expected, was at present unknown either to the notary or to myself.

I don't wish to make myself out better than I really am, my dear Louis: I must declare, nevertheless, that in spite of the very natural bewilderment which I felt on finding myself the owner of such a fortune, my first thought, when once I had disposed of the legal matters, was to pay a tribute of mournful regrets to the memory of my poor uncle. I should have considered it base ingratitude, not to say impiety on my part, to have shown myself too eager to enjoy the wealth bequeathed to me by so generous a benefactor. His loss really left a cruel void in