which the other persons present had not observed. The failing
heart felt that parting moment, and sank under it. "Take the
child away," the surgeon whispered to the mother. Brandy was near
him; he administered it while he spoke, and touched the
fluttering pulse. It felt, just felt, the stimulant. He revived
for a moment, and looked wistfully for his son. "The boy," he
murmured; "I want my boy." As his wife brought the child to him,
the surgeon whispered to her again. "If you have anything to say
to him be quick about it!" She shuddered; she took his cold hand.
Her touch seemed to nerve him with new strength; he asked her to
stoop over him. "They won't let me write here," he whispered,
"unless they see my letter." He paused to get his breath again.
"Lift up my left arm," he gasped. "Open the wrist-band."

She detached the stud which closed the wrist-band of the shirt.
On the inner side of the linen there was a line written in red
letters--red of the color of blood. She saw these words: _Look in
the lining of my trunk._

"What for?" she asked.

The fading light in his eyes flashed on her a dreadful look of
doubt. His lips fell apart in the vain effort to answer. His last
sigh fluttered the light ringlets of her hair as she bent over
him.

The surgeon pointed to her children. "Take the poor things home,"
he said; "they have seen the last of their father."

Mrs. Westerfield obeyed in silence. She had her own reasons for