legs tottered as he walked. At last, one night, a stroke of
apoplexy caught him by the throat in its icy clutch. After that
fatal day he grew morose and stern.

He would reproach his wife and son with their devotion, casting
it in their teeth that the affecting and thoughtful care that
they lavished so tenderly upon him was bestowed because they knew
that his money was invested in a life annuity. Then Elvira and
Felipe would shed bitter tears and redouble their caresses, and
the wicked old man's insinuating voice would take an affectionate
tone--"Ah, you will forgive me, will you not, dear friends, dear
wife? I am rather a nuisance. Alas, Lord in heaven, how canst
Thou use me as the instrument by which Thou provest these two
angelic creatures? I who should be the joy of their lives am
become their scourge . . ."

In this manner he kept them tethered to his pillow, blotting out
the memory of whole months of fretfulness and unkindness in one
short hour when he chose to display for them the ever-new
treasures of his pinchbeck tenderness and charm of manner--a
system of paternity that yielded him an infinitely better return
than his own father's indulgence had formerly gained. At length
his bodily infirmities reached a point when the task of laying
him in bed became as difficult as the navigation of a felucca in
the perils of an intricate channel. Then came the day of his
death; and this brilliant sceptic, whose mental faculties alone
had survived the most dreadful of all destructions, found himself
between his two special antipathies--the doctor and the
confessor. But he was jovial with them. Did he not see a light
gleaming in the future beyond the veil? The pall that is like