talking to it, sometimes swearing bitterly at it. His mind was visibly failing.
At length the crash came. They carried him upstairs in a raging delirium of fever. The illness that followed was terrible. He recognized no one, not even papa’s uncle’s friend in his Bengal uniform. At times he would start up from his bed and shriek, “Well, I think I . . . ” and then fall back upon the pillow with a horrible laugh. Then, again, he would leap up and cry, “Another cup of tea and more photographs! More photographs! Har! Har!”
At length, after a month of agony, on the last day of his vacation, he passed away. They say that when the last moment came, he sat up in bed with a beautiful smile of confidence playing upon his face, and said, “Well—the angels are calling me; I’m afraid I really must go now. Good afternoon.”
And the rushing of his spirit from its prison-house was as rapid as a hunted cat passing over a garden fence.
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