I first want to say that I regret that I did not know of your
existence earlier, when perhaps I could have made life easier for you
--although quite likely I would have added to its perplexities. We are
the last of a good family: you, Drusilla Doane, an inmate of a
charitable institution, and I, Elias Doane, millionaire,
philanthropist, and rare old humbug. You have passed your life in
toil, trying to earn your daily bread, and have found yourself
nearing the end of this footless journey that we call life, alone and
friendless. I have passed my days in toil also, and find myself, at
the end, as much alone and friendless as is the loneliest inmate of
the Doane home. I have had bread, yes; and often eaten it in
bitterness. I have had friends, yes; and doubted their sincerity.
Love, wife, children, home, all have been sacrificed to pride of
wealth, of power, and things--just mere things, that cannot touch the
hand in times of sorrow, nor rejoice in times of joy. But I do not
complain; I made my god a thing of gilt and tinsel, and he repaid me
for my worship. And now I go to meet another God.

But before I go I want to give another a chance to do what I have
never done--enjoy my money--if such a thing can give enjoyment. A
great share of my hard-earned dollars will go in salaries to fat
officials and well-fed directors of the institutions I have endowed,
but the little I have given you I want you to spend as you see fit.
Throw it to the winds, if you so desire, or feed it to the squirrels
in Central Park.

I am looking forward to enjoyment in seeing the way you spend the
money. They say when we have passed over the river that the things of
this world will no longer interest us; but, Drusilla, that is not
true. I know my days will be spent leaning over the battlements