I was sitting in my room on the Friday morning, after a sleepless night, when Barthrop came in and handed me a telegram from the doctor.  “Mr. Payne never recovered consciousness, and died an hour after the operation.  All details arranged.  Please await letter.”  I raised my eyes to Barthrop’s face, but saw that he could not speak.  I could say nothing either:  my mind and heart seemed to crumble suddenly into a hopeless despair.

A letter reached us the same evening by train.  It was to the effect that Father Payne had written down some exact directions the day before and given them to the matron.  He did not wish, in case of his death, that anyone should see his body:  he wished to be placed in the simplest of coffins, as soon as possible, and that the coffin should be sent down by train to Aveley, be taken from the station straight to the church, and if possible to be buried at once.  But even so, that was only his wish, and he particularly desired to avoid alike all ceremony and inconvenience.  But besides that there were two notes enclosed addressed in Father Payne’s hand to Barthrop and myself, which ran as follows: 

“My dear Leonard,—­I thought it very good of you to come up to see me, and no less good of you to go away as I desired.  It is possible, of course, that I may return to you, and all be as before.  But to be frank, I do not think it will be so.  Even if I survive, I shall, I think, be much weakened by this operation, and shall have the possibility of a recurrence of the disease hanging over me.  Much as I love life, and the world where I have found it pleasant to live, I do not want to lead a broken sort of existence, with invalid precautions and limitations.  I think that this would bring out all that is worst in me, and would lead to unhappiness both in myself and in all those about me.  If it has to be so, I shall do my best, but I think it would be a discreditable performance.  I do not, however, think that I shall have this trial laid upon me.  I feel that I am summoned elsewhere, and I am glad to think that my passage will be a swift one.  I am not afraid of what lies beyond, because I believe death to be simple and natural enough, and a perfectly definite thing.  Of what lies beyond it, I can form no idea; all our theories are probably quite wide of the mark.  But it will be the same for me as it has been for all others who have died, and as it will some day be for you; and when we know, we shall be surprised that we did not see what it would be.  I confess that I love the things that I know, and dislike the unknown.  The world is very dear and familiar, and it has been kind and beautiful to me, as well as full of interest.  But I expect that things will be much simplified.  And please bear this in mind, that such a scene which we went through yesterday is worse for those who stand by and can do nothing than for the man himself; and you will believe me when I say that I am neither afraid