parents。　　I　think　it　was　to　visit　some　relative。　　One　day　we　went
  into　the　castle。　　It　was　in　ruins　then；　but　has　since　been　restored。
  We　were　in　what　was　once　the　council　chamber。　　I　stole　away　by
  myself　to　the　other　end　of　the　great　room　and；　not　knowing　why　I　did
  so；　I　touched　a　spring　concealed　in　the　masonry；　and　a　door　swung
  open　with　a　harsh；　grinding　noise。　　I　remember　peering　round　the
  opening。　　The　others　had　their　backs　towards　me；　and　I　slipped
  through　and　closed　the　door　behind　me。　　I　seemed　instinctively　to
  know　my　way。　　I　ran　down　a　flight　of　steps　and　along　dark　corridors
  through　which　I　had　to　feel　my　way　with　my　hands；　till　I　came　to　a
  small　door　in　an　angle　of　the　wall。　　I　knew　the　room　that　lay　the
  other　side。　　A　photograph　was　taken　of　it　and　published　years
  afterwards；　when　the　place　was　discovered；　and　it　was　exactly　as　I
  knew　it　with　its　way　out　underneath　the　city　wall　through　one　of　the
  small　houses　in　the　Aussermarkt。
  〃I　could　not　open　the　door。　　Some　stones　had　fallen　against　it；　and
  fearing　to　get　punished；　I　made　my　way　back　into　the　council　room。
  It　was　empty　when　I　reached　it。　　They　were　searching　for　me　in　the
  other　rooms；　and　I　never　told　them　of　my　adventure。〃
  At　any　other　time　I　might　have　laughed。　　Later；　recalling　his　talk
  that　evening；　I　dismissed　the　whole　story　as　mere　suggestion；　based
  upon　the　imagination　of　a　child；　but　at　the　time　those　strangely
  brilliant　eyes　had　taken　possession　of　me。　　They　remained　still
  fixed　upon　me　as　I　sat　on　the　low　rail　of　the　veranda　watching　his
  white　face；　into　which　the　hues　of　death　seemed　already　to　be
  creeping。
  I　had　a　feeling　that；　through　them；　he　was　trying　to　force
  remembrance　of　himself　upon　me。　　The　man　himselfthe　very　soul　of
  himseemed　to　be　concentrated　in　them。　　Something　formless　and　yet
  distinct　was　visualising　itself　before　me。　　It　came　to　me　as　a
  physical　relief　when　a　spasm　of　pain　caused　him　to　turn　his　eyes
  away　from　me。
  〃You　will　find　a　letter　when　I　am　gone；〃　he　went　on；　after　a
  moment's　silence。　　〃I　thought　that　you　might　come　too　late；　or　that
  I　might　not　have　strength　enough　to　tell　you。　　I　felt　that　out　of
  the　few　people　I　have　met　outside　business；　you　would　be　the　most
  likely　not　to　dismiss　the　matter　as　mere　nonsense。　　What　I　am　glad
  of　myself；　and　what　I　wish　you　to　remember；　is　that　I　am　dying　with
  all　my　faculties　about　me。　　The　one　thing　I　have　always　feared
  through　life　was　old　age；　with　its　gradual　mental　decay。　　It　has
  always　seemed　to　me　that　I　have　died　more　or　less　suddenly　while
  still　in　possession　of　my　will。　　I　have　always　thanked　God　for
  that。〃
  He　closed　his　eyes；　but　I　do　not　think　he　was　sleeping；　and　a　little
  later　the　nurse　returned；　and　we　carried　him　indoors。　　I　had　no
  further　conversation　with　him；　though　at　his　wish　during　the
  following　two　days　I　continued　to　read　to　him；　and　on　the　third　day
  he　died。
  I　found　the　letter　he　had　spoken　of。　　He　had　told　me　where　it　would
  be。　　It　contained　a　bundle　of　banknotes　which　he　was　giving　meso
  he　wrotewith　the　advice　to　get　rid　of　them　as　quickly　as　possible。
  〃If　I　had　not　loved　you；〃　the　letter　continued；　〃I　would　have　left
  you　an　income；　and　you　would　have　blessed　me；　instead　of　cursing　me；
  as　you　should　have　done；　for　spoiling　your　life。〃
  This　world　was　a　school；　so　he　viewed　it；　for　the　making　of　men；　and
  the　one　thing　essential　to　a　man　was　strength。　　One　gathered　the
  impression　of　a　deeply　religious　man。　　In　these　days　he　would；　no
  doubt；　have　been　claimed　as　a　theosophist；　but　his　beliefs　he　had
  made　for；　and　adapted　to；　himselfto　his　vehement；　conquering
  temperament。　　God　needed　men　to　serve　Himto　help　Him。　　So；　through
  many　changes；　through　many　ages；　God　gave　men　life：　　that　by　contest
  and　by　struggle　they　might　ever　increase　in　strength；　to　those　who
  proved　themselves　most　fit　the　sterner　task；　the　humbler　beginnings；
  the　greater　obstacles。　　And　the　crown　of　well…doing　was　ever
  victory。　　He　appeared　to　have　convinced　himself　that　he　was　one　of
  the　chosen；　that　he　was　destined　for　great　ends。　　He　had　been　a
  slave　in　the　time　of　the　Pharaohs；　a　priest　in　Babylon；　had　clung　to
  the　swaying　ladders　in　the　sack　of　Rome；　had　won　his　way　into　the
  councils　when　Europe　was　a　battlefield　of　contending　tribes；　had
  climbed　to　power　in　the　days　of　the　Borgias。
  To　most　of　us；　I　suppose；　there　come　at　odd　moments　haunting
  thoughts　of　strangely　familiar；　far…off　things；　and　one　wonders
  whether　they　are　memories　or　dreams。　　We　dismiss　them　as　we　grow
  older　and　the　present　with　its　crowding　interests　shuts　them　out；
  but　in　youth　they　were　more　persistent。　　With　him　they　appeared　to
  have　remained；　growing　in　reality。　　His　recent　existence；　closed
  under　the　white　sheet　in　the　hut　behind　me　as　I　read；　was　only　one
  chapter　of　the　story；　he　was　looking　forward　to　the　next。
  He　wondered；　so　the　letter　ran；　whether　he　would　have　any　voice　in
  choosing　it。　　In　either　event　he　was　curious　of　the　result。　　What　he
  anticipated　confidently　were　new　opportunities；　wider　experience。
  In　what　shape　would　these　come　to　him？
  The　letter　ended　with　a　strange　request。　　It　was　that；　on　returning
  to　England；　I　should　continue　to　think　of　him：　　not　of　the　dead　man
  I　had　known；　the　Jewish　banker；　the　voice　familiar　to　me；　the　trick
  of　speech；　of　mannerall　such　being　but　the　changing　clothesbut
  of　the　man　himself；　the　soul　of　him；　that　would　seek　and　perhaps
  succeed　in　revealing　itself　to　me。
  A　postscript　concluded　the　letter；　to　which　at　the　time　I　attached
  no　importance。　　He　had　made　a　purchase　of　the　hut　in　which　he　had
  died。　　After　his　removal　it　was　to　remain　empty。
  I　folded　the　letter　and　placed　it　among　other　papers；　and　passing
  into　the　hut　took　a　farewell　glance　at　the　massive；　rugged　face。
  The　mask　might　have　served　a　sculptor　for　the　embodiment　of
  strength。　　He　gave　one　the　feeling　that　having　conquered　death　he
  was　sleeping。
  I　did　what　he　had　requested　of　me。　　Indeed；　I　could　not　help　it。　　I
  thought　of　him　constantly。　　That　may　have　been　the　explanation　of
  it。
  I　was　bicycling　through　Norfolk；　and　one　afternoon；　to　escape　a
  coming　thunderstorm；　I　knocked　at　the　door　of　a　lonely　cottage　on
  the　outskirts　of　a　common。　　The　woman；　a　kindly　bustling　person；
  asked　me　in；　and　hoping　I　would　excuse　her；　as　she　was　busy　ironing；
  returned　to　her　work　in　another　room。　　I　thought　myself　alone；　and
  was　standing　at　the　window　watching　the　pouring　rain。　　After　a
  while；　without　knowing　why；　I　turned。　　And　then　I　saw　a　child　seated
  on　a　high　chair　behind　a　table　in　a　dark　corner　of　the　room。　　A　book
  of　pictures　was　open　before　it；　but　it　was　looking　at　me。　　I　could
  hear　the　sound　of　the　woman　at　her　ironing　in　the　other　room。
  Outside　there　was　the　steady　thrashing　of　the　rain。　　The　child　was
  looking　at　me　with　large；　round　eyes　filled　with　a　terrible　pathos。
  I　noticed　that　the　little　body　was　misshapen。　　It　never　moved；　it
  made　no　sound；　but　I　had　the　feeling　that　out　of　those　strangely
  wistful　eyes　something　was　trying　to　speak　to　me。　　Something　was
  forming　itself　before　menot　visible　to　my　sight；　but　it　was　there；
  in　the　room。　　It　was　the　man　I　had　last　looked　upon　as；　dying；　he
  sat　beside　me　in　the　hut　below　the　Jungfrau。　　But　something　had
  happened　to　him。　　Moved　by　instinct　I　went　over　to　him　and　lifted
  him　out　of　his　chair；　and　with　a　sob　the　little　wizened　arms　closed
  round　my　neck　and　he　clung　to　me　cryinga　pitiful；　low；　wailing
  cry。
  Hearing　his　cry；　the　woman　came　back。　　A　comely；　healthy…looking
  woman。　　She　took　him　from　my　arms　and　comforted　him。
  〃He　gets　a　bit　sorry　for　himself　at　times；〃　she　explained。　　〃At
  least；　so　I　fancy。　　You　see；　he　can't　run　about　like　other　children；
  or　do　anything　without　getting　pains。〃
  〃Was　it　an　accident？〃　I　asked。
  〃No；〃　she　answered；　〃and　his　father　as　fine　a　man　as　you　would　find
  in　a　day's　march。　　Just　a　visitation　of　God；　as　they　tell　me。　　Sure
  I　don't　know　why。　　There　never　was　a　better　little　lad；　and　clever；
  too；　when　he's　not　in　pain。　　Draws　wonderfully。〃
  The　storm　had　passed。　　He　grew　quieter　in　her　arms；　and　when　I　had
  promised　to　come　again　and　bring　him　a　new　picture…book；　a　little
  grateful　smile　flickered　across　the　drawn　face；　but　he　would　not
  talk。
  I　kept　in　touch　with　him。　　Mere　curiosity　would　have　made　me　do
  that。　　He　grew　more　normal　as　the　years　went　by；　and　gradually　the
  fancy　that　had　come　to　me　at　our　first　meeting　faded　farther　into
  the　background。　　Sometimes；　using　the　very　language　of　the　dead
  man's　letter；　I　would　talk　to　him；　wondering　if　by　any　chance　some
  flash　of　memory　would　come　back　to　him；　and　once　or　twice　it　seemed
  to　me　that　into　the　mild；　pathetic　eyes　there　came　a　look　that　I　had
  seen　before；　but　it　passed　away；　and　indeed；　it　was　difficult　to
  think　of　this　sad　little　human　oddity；　with　its　pleading
  helplessness；　in　connection　with　the　strong；　swift；　conquering
  spirit　that　I　had　watched　passing　away　amid　the　silence　of　the
  mountains。
  The　one　thing　that　brought　joy　to　him　was　his　art。　　I　cannot　help
  thinking　that；　but　for　his　health；　he　would　have　made　a　name　for
  himself。　　His　work　was　always　clever　and　original；　but　it　was　the
  work　of　an　invalid。