If the kind of work which he wanted was given to stronger and rougher hands than his in England, far more would it be the case in young and rough America.  It was journalistic work—­writing work—­that he wanted; and he was a gentleman, a scholar, and a creature of retired and refined tastes and manners.  There are, perhaps, some still living who have survived the tempestuous life of the ordinary Fleet Street “newspaper man” of twenty or thirty years ago; perhaps one or two among these remember Claude Aglen—­but he was so short a time with them that it is not likely; those who do remember him will understand that the way to success, rough and thorny for all, for such as Aglen was impossible.

“But you will think every day of little Iris?” said his wife.  “Oh, my dear, if I were only going with you!  And but for me you would be at home with your father, well and happy.”

Then in his dream, which was also a memory, the old man saw how the young husband kissed and comforted his wife.

“My dear,” said Claude, “if it were not for you, what happiness could I have in the world?  Courage, my wife, courage and hope.  I shall think of you and Iris all day and all night until we meet again.”

And so they parted and the ship sailed away.

The old man opened his eyes and looked about him.  It was a dream.

“It was twenty years ago,” he said, “and Iris was a baby in arms.  Twenty years ago, and he never saw his wife again.  Never again!  Because she died,” he added after a pause; “my Alice died.”

He shed no tears, being so old that the time of tears was well-nigh past—­at seventy-five the eyes are drier than at forty, and one is no longer surprised or disappointed, and seldom even angry, whatever happens.

But he opened the letter in his hand and read it again mechanically.  It was written on thin foreign paper, and the creases of the folds had become gaping rents.  It was dated September, 1866, just eighteen years back.

“When you read these lines,” the letter said, “I shall be in the silent land, whither Alice, my wife, has gone before me.  It would be a strange thing only to think upon this journey which lies before me, and which I must take alone, had I time left for thinking.  But I have not.  I may last a week, or I may die in a few hours.  Therefore, to the point.

“In one small thing we deceived you, Alice and I—­my name is not Aglen at all; we took that name for certain reasons.  Perhaps we were wrong, but we thought that as we were quite poor, and likely to remain poor, it would be well to keep our secret to ourselves.  Forgive us both this suppression of the truth.  We were made poor by our own voluntary act and deed, and because I married the only woman I loved.

“I was engaged to a girl whom I did not love.  We had been brought up like brother and sister together, but I did not love her, though I was engaged to her.  In breaking this engagement I angered my father.  In marrying Alice I angered him still more.