“Madelon,—­The love that was set betwixt man and woman that the race might not die is one love, but there is another.  That have I found and found through you, and bless you for it, though death be needful to its keeping.  There is another birth than that of the flesh, through this so great love, which can upon itself beget immortality of love unto the understanding of all which is above.  A greater end of love than the life of worlds there is, which is love itself.  That end have I attained through this great love in my own soul which you have shown me, else should I have never known it there, and died so, having lived to myself alone, and been no true lover.

   “Lot Gordon.”

And hesitated, reading it over; but at length tore that into shreds, and wrote yet again: 

“Dear Child,—­I pray you when I am gone that you wear the pretty gowns and the trinkets which I offered you once, for I would fain give you for your happiness more than my poor life.”

Tears of self-pity fell from Lot’s eyes as he wrote the last; then he laughed scornfully at himself, and tore that up.  “Self dies hard,” said he.

He wrote no more to Madelon, but now to Burr: 

“Dear Cousin,” he wrote, “I have this day discovered that my life is in imminent danger from the wound.  If my death comes in that wise there will be trouble.  I take the only way to save her, but I pray you, upon your honor, that you do not let her know, for even your love cannot sweeten her life fully for her if she knows; for love has taught me the heart of this woman.  To you alone, for the sake of the honor of our blood, which has never been shed by our own hands before, I disclose this; for I would be set right in the eyes of one man when I am dead.”

Lot Gordon pondered long over that; but finally tore up that as he had torn the others, and gathered up all the fragments and crawled across the room with them, and threw them on the hearthfire.

Then, leaving them blazing there, he returned to his desk, and wrote: 

“To all whom it may concern, or to all whom in their own estimation it may concern, this:

“I, Lot Gordon, of Ware Centre, being weary of life, which is a dream, have resolved to force the waking.  Having once before attempted in vain to take my life, I now attempt it again, and this time not in vain, for my hand has grown skilful with practice.  I take my life because of no wrong done me by man or woman, nor because of any vain love; I take it solely because my days upon this earth being numbered through my distress of the lungs, I have not the courage to see death approach by inches, and prefer to meet him at one bound.  I have lived unto myself, with no man accountable, and I die unto myself, with no man accountable; and this is the truth with my last breath.

   “Lot Gordon.”