although he was at his office and in the club that night, and insisted on
paying his account for December and his dues to April first. December
thirtieth he was at his office, where he remained until nearly midnight.
He went to his room, which was near the club, and was found by his
servant, early the next morning, the last of the old year, dead. He was
lying on the bed, dressed and at full length. His right hand clenched a
pistol with one empty barrel; gently closed in his left hand they found a
little bunch of faded violets--that was all.

Not a line, not a scrap of paper to tell the story. His private letters
had been burned--their ashes were heaped upon the hearth. There were no
written instructions of any kind. There were no mementoes, no keepsakes.
Yes, there was a little Bible on the candle-stand at the head of his bed,
but it was closed. On the fly-leaf, written in the trembling hand of an
old woman, was his name, the word "mother," and the date of a New Year
time in old Virginia when he was a boy.

There was money, more than enough to cause quarrel and heart-burnings
among a few distant relatives in another State, but there was absolutely
no record of why he had with his own hand torn aside the veil which hangs
between life and death.

When the others were not there I slipped into his room and reverently
unclosed his fingers and read the story written there--written over and
above those Russian violets which she had worn--for they were the same.
There they remained.

On the lid of his casket we placed a single wreath of Russian violets. But
all the strength and all the sweetness came from those dim violets faded,
but not dead, shut within the icy cold of his lifeless palm.