Still he stood silent, with his cold, hard frown; it was plain that, if he was to come back to me, it would be from the other world—­if there be one!  What he was going to answer I know not.  The door opened, and Robert appeared, pale, trembling, his eyes starting in his head.

“I verily believe that poor Mr. Sloane is dead in his bed!” he cried.

There was a moment’s perfect silence.  “Amen,” said I.  “Yes, old boy, try and be just.”  Mr. Sloane had quietly died in my absence.

24th.—­Theodore went up to town this morning, having shaken hands with me in silence before he started.  Doctor Jones, and Brooks the attorney, have been very officious, and, by their advice, I have telegraphed to a certain Miss Meredith, a maiden lady, by their account the nearest of kin; or, in other words, simply a discarded niece of the defunct.  She telegraphs back that she will arrive in person for the funeral.  I shall remain till she comes.  I have lost a fortune, but have I irretrievably lost a friend?  I am sure I can’t say.  Yes, I shall wait for Miss Meredith.

[1] The Galaxy, July, 1869.

YATIL.[2]

BY F.D.  MILLET.

While in Paris, in the spring of 1878, I witnessed an accident in a circus, which for a time made me renounce all athletic exhibitions.  Six horses were stationed side by side in the ring before a spring-board, and the whole company of gymnasts ran and turned somersaults from the spring over the horses, alighting on a mattress spread on the ground.  The agility of one finely developed young fellow excited great applause every time he made the leap.  He would shoot forward in the air like a javelin, and in his flight curl up and turn over directly above the mattress, dropping on his feet as lightly as a bird.  This play went on for some minutes, and at each round of applause the favorite seemed to execute his leap with increased skill and grace.  Finally, he was seen to gather himself a little farther in the background than usual, evidently to prepare for a better start.  The instant his turn came he shot out of the crowd of attendants and launched himself into the air with tremendous momentum.  Almost quicker than the eye could follow him, he had turned and was dropping to the ground, his arms held above his head, which hung slightly forward, and his legs stretched to meet the shock of the elastic mattress.

But this time he had jumped an inch too far.  His feet struck just on the edge of the mattress, and he was thrown violently forward, doubling up on the ground with a dull thump, which was heard all over the immense auditorium.  He remained a second or two motionless, then sprang to his feet, and as quickly sank to the ground again.  The ring attendants and two or three gymnasts rushed to him and took him up.  The clown, in evening dress, personating the mock ringmaster, the conventional spotted merryman,