made up my mind to it; for Hollingsworth would have gone with me to the hither verge of life, and have sent his friendly and hopeful accents far over on the other side, while I should be treading the unknown path.

Now, were I to send for him, he would hardly come to my bedside, nor should I depart the easier for his presence.

“You are not going to die, this time,” said he, gravely smiling. “You know nothing about sickness, and think your case a great deal more desperate than it is.”

“Death should take me while I am in the mood,” replied I, with a little of my customary levity.

“Have you nothing to do in life,” asked Hollingsworth, “that you fancy yourself so ready to leave it?”