when with failing lips he murmured that the only comfort for the
dying heart was the thought that it had desired goodness, however
falteringly, above everything.

I can't describe to you how deeply all this affects me--with what a
hunger of the heart, what tenderness, what admiration, what wonder.
The very frankness of the surprise with which, over and over again,
the brave spirit confesses that he does not miss the delights of
life as much as he expected, nor find the burden as heavy as he had
feared, is a very noble and beautiful thing. I can conceive of no
book more likely to make a spirit in the grip of sorrow and failure
more gentle, hopeful, and brave; because it brings before one, with
quiet and pathetic dignity, the fact that no fame, no success, no
recognition, can be weighed for a moment in the balance with those
simple qualities of human nature which the humblest being may
admire, win, and display.--Ever yours,

T. B.



UPTON,
Shrove Tuesday, Feb. 16, 1904.


DEAR HERBERT,--One of those incredible incidents has just happened
here, an incident that makes one feel how little one knows of human
beings, and that truth, in spite of the conscientious toil of Mr.
H. G. Wells, does still continue to keep ahead of fiction. Here is
the story. Some money is missed in a master's house; circumstances