"He is dead," I answered.

"And my man--did he give you the letter?"

"Yes; he is dead also."

"Dead? I thought he was dead," he repeated, slowly and
thoughtfully. "I, too, am dead--long dead."

The words were separated by considerable pauses, and he
faced me almost sternly as he finished speaking them. I
stood staring at him, dumb with surprise.

"Why--how did you come here?"

He sank into a chair, exhausted with the effort it had cost
him to speak. My presence seemed to irritate and annoy him.
Why, indeed, had I come there? What should I say in reply to
his question? I tried to think.

"Knaves! Knaves!" said my uncle, in a shrill voice, rushing
toward me. In a moment he had thrown his arms about my neck
and was sobbing aloud. My heart was full and I wept with
him.

"Fortunate child of God," said he, after a moment; "you have
the seed of life--immortal life. But I beg you to go. To one
like you this house will seem an uncanny place; I can only
think of it as beyond the grave."