THE RETURN OF THE PORTFOLIO

With that serious question the last of the leaves entrusted to me by the
Lodger at the Mill came to an end.

I betray no confidence in presenting this copy of his confession. Time
has passed since I first read it, and changes have occurred in the
interval, which leave me free to exercise my own discretion, and to let
the autobiography speak for itself.

If I am asked what impression of the writer those extraordinary pages
produced on me, I feel at a loss how to reply.

Not one impression, but many impressions, troubled and confused my mind.
Certain passages in the confession inclined me to believe that the writer
was mad. But I altered my opinion at the next leaf, and set him down as a
man with a bitter humor, disposed to make merry over his own bad
qualities. At one time, his tone in writing of his early life, and his
allusions to his mother, won my sympathy and respect. At another time,
the picture of himself in his later years, and the defiant manner in
which he presented it, almost made me regret that he had not died of the
illness which had struck him deaf. In this state of uncertainty I may
claim the merit of having arrived, so far as my own future conduct was
concerned, at one positive conclusion. As strangers he and I had first
met. As strangers I was determined we should remain.

Having made up my mind, so far, the next thing to do (with the clock on
the mantel-piece striking midnight) was to go to bed.