"Morphine," said the doctor, "and the
hypodermic. And here," he exclaimed, lifting the other
hand--"here is a folded card with your name at the
top."

I snatched it from him, and I read, written in
faint but rounded characters:


"I like to hear your voice. It sounds kind. It is
like a far-off tune. To drop asleep, though, as I
am doing now, is sweeter music--but read on.--I
have taken something to make me sleep, and by
mistake I have taken too much; but you will read
right on. Now, mind you, this is not suicide, as
God listens to the whisper of this pencil as I write!
I did it by mistake. For years and years I have
taken the same thing. This time I took too much--
much more than I meant to--but I am glad. This
is the second favor I would ask: Go to my employers
to-morrow, show them this handwriting, and
say I know for my sake they will take charge of
my affairs and administer all my estate in the best
way suited to my mother's needs. Good-by, my
friend--I can only say 'good night' to you when I
shall take your hand an instant later and turn away
forever."