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"Never shall I forget the despairing scream of my unlucky guide."
MEN call me mad. They have labeled me a maniac and shut me away in this grim asylum. The more I try to convince them of the truth, the more they laugh. Bad I am; a criminal I am; but insane I am not. Now, incarcerated within madhouse walls, I will write my story; and perhaps, after I have gone, they will believe.
It all began last September; now it is June. In a tall maple outside my iron-barred window, robins are singing. To the birds it is summer; nine months ago it was summer in my heart, too. Nine months ago! How long it seems!
Nine months ago, I visited the Western Hospital of that old French-Canadian city, Montreal. And there, on a cot near the door in the fifth public ward, I saw Old Matthewson, the orchid-gatherer. Fever was devouring him, and part of the time he was delirious. But, during lucid moments, he told me his strange story; told me of the marvelous flowers for which I have sold my soul!
I laughed at him at first, I remember; laughed incredulously. Had not I myself for many years collected orchids; searched them out from the farthest corners of the globe? Certainly I had; and critics had pronounced my collection the most excellent of any—better even than that of Jasper Carrington, my most bitter rival.
Old Matthewson saw me laugh; saw my sneer of unbelief. Then with shaking fingers he drew from be-
