of dissipation or indulgence; but there was suffering, possibly the marks
of some endured shame. The suffering and shadows showed the more because
his features were refined enough for a woman. And altogether it struck
me that he was possessed by some one idea, which gave his looks a kind of
sorrowful eloquence, such as one sees on occasion in the face of a great
actor like Salvini, on the forehead of a devout Buddhist, or in the eyes
of a Jesuit missionary who martyrs himself in the wilds.

I felt at once for the man a sympathy, a brotherliness, the causes of
which I should be at a loss to trace. Most people have this experience
at one time or another in their lives. It is not a matter of sex; it may
be between an old man and a little child, a great man and a labourer, a
schoolgirl and an old native woman. There is in such companionships less
self-interest than in any other. As I have said, I thought that this man
had a trouble, and I wished to know it; not from curiosity,--though my
mind had a selfish, inquiring strain,--but because I hoped I might be
able to help him in some way. I put my hand on his shoulder, and
replied: "You will never be better unless you get rid of your worry."

He drew in a sharp breath, and said: "I know that. I am afraid I shall
never be better."

There was a silence in which we looked at each other steadily, and then
he added, with an intense but quiet misery: "Never--never!"

At that he moved his hand across his forehead wearily, rose, and turned
toward the door. He swayed as he did so, and would have fallen, but I
caught him as he lost consciousness, and laid him on the cabin sofa. I
chafed his hands, unloosed his collar, and opened the bosom of his shirt.
As the linen dropped away from his throat, a small portrait on ivory was