She started as he spoke, and then endeavoured to flatter him into a belief that his apprehensions were groundless.

“I do not wish to be deceived,” said he.  “To meet death as becomes a man is a privilege bestowed on few.  I would endeavour to make it mine.  Nor do I think that I can ever be better prepared for it than now.”  He paused some moments.  “I am in such a state as calls for sincerity.  Let that also excuse it.  It is perhaps the last time we shall ever meet.”  He paused again.  “Let it not offend you to know your power over one so unworthy.  To love Miss Walton could not be a crime; if to declare it is one, the expiation will be made.”

Her tears were now flowing without control.

“Let me entreat you,” said she, “to have better hopes.  Let not life be so indifferent to you, if my wishes can put any value on it.  I know your worth—­I have known it long.  I have esteemed it.  What would you have me say?  I have loved it as it deserved.”

He seized her hand, a languid colour reddened her cheek; a smile brightened faintly in his eye.  As he gazed on her it grew dim, it fixed, it closed.  He sighed, and fell back on his seat.  Miss Walton screamed at the sight.

His aunt and the servants rushed into the room.  They found them lying motionless together.

His physician happened to call at that instant.  Every art was tried to recover them.  With Miss Walton they succeeded, but Harley was gone for ever.

* * * * *

XAVIER DE MAISTRE

A Journey Round My Room

Count Xavier de Maistre was born in October 1763 at Chambery, in Savoy.  When, in the war and the upheaval that followed on the French Revolution, his country was annexed to France, he emigrated to Russia, and being a landscape painter of fine talent, he managed to live on the pictures which he sold.  He died at St. Petersburg on June 12, 1852.  His famous “Journey Round My Room” ("Voyage autour de ma chambre”) was written in 1794 at Turin, where he was imprisoned for forty-two days over some affair of honour.  The style of his work is clearly modelled on that of Sterne, but the ideas, which he pours out with a delightful interplay of wit and fancy, are marked with the stamp of a fine, original mind.  The work is one of the most brilliant tours de force in a literature remarkable for its lightness, grace, and charm.  Being a born writer, de Maistre whiled away his time by producing a sparkling little masterpiece, which will be cherished long after the heavy, philosophical works written by his elder brother, Joseph de Maistre, have mouldered into the dust.  In the lifetime of the two brothers, Joseph was regarded throughout Europe as a man of high genius, while Xavier was looked down on as a trifler.

I.—­My Great Discovery