"Why have you come?" he asked, harshly. "I have been coughing.
I am going to die."

"Then I'll fetch a doctor."

"No."

"A clergyman?"

"No."

But I ran for the doctor.

Fortunio lived on for a week after this, and at length consented to
see a clergyman. I brought the vicar, and was told to leave them
alone together and come back in an hour's time.

When I returned, Fortunio was stretched quietly on the rough bed we
had found for him, and the Vicar, who knelt beside it, was speaking
softly in his ear.

As I entered on tiptoe, I heard--

". . . in that kingdom shall be no weeping--"

"Oh, Parson," interrupted Fortunio, "that's bad. I'm so bored with
laughing that the good God might surely allow a few tears."

The parish buried him, and his books went to pay for the funeral.
But I kept the Virgil; and this, with the few memories that I impart