frightful solitudes, and had drifted here to starve to death in this
appalling wilderness. It was a sight which seemed ominous of our own
fate, and Agnew's boasted hope, which had so long upheld him, now sank
down into a despair as deep as my own. What room was there now for
hope, or how could we expect any other fate than this?

At length I began to search the pockets of the deceased.

"What are you doing?" asked Agnew, in a hoarse voice.

"I'm trying to find out who he is," I said. "Perhaps there may be
papers."

As I said this I felt something in the breast-pocket of his jacket,
and drew it forth. It was a leather pocket-book, mouldy and rotten
like the clothing. On opening it, it fell to pieces. There was nothing
in it but a piece of paper, also mouldy and rotten. This I unfolded
with great care, and saw writing there, which, though faded, was still
legible. It was a letter, and there were still signs of long and
frequent perusals, and marks, too, which looked as though made by
tears--tears, perhaps of the writer, perhaps of the reader: who can
tell? I have preserved this letter ever since, and I now fasten it
here upon this sheet of my manuscript.


THE LETTER.

"Bristol April 20. 1820.

"my darling tom