“Oh, Death, come soon!  Come soon!”

Shortly after writing it he shaved, dressed himself with the most scrupulous care, and shot himself.  This occurred March 23, 1855, in the Eagle Hotel, North Capitol Street, Jackson, Mississippi.

“To preserve the neatness and cleanliness of his attire after death should have ensued,” says Colonel R.W.  Banks, “it is said he poured a little water upon the floor to ascertain the direction the blood would take when it flowed from the wound.  Then, placing himself in proper position, so that the gore would run from and not toward his body, he placed the pistol to the right temple, pulled the trigger and death quickly followed.”

CHAPTER XLIV

THE GIRL HE LEFT BEHIND HIM

On our second evening in Columbus my companion and I returned to the house, near our domicile, to which we had been sent by Mrs. Eichelberger for our meals; but owing to a misunderstanding as to the dinner hour we found ourselves again too late.  The family, and the teachers from the I.I. and C. who took meals there, were already coming out from dinner to sit and chat on the steps in the twilight.

We were disappointed, for we were tired of restaurants, and had counted on a home meal that night; nor was our disappointment softened by the fact that the lady whom we interviewed seemed to have no pity for us, but dismissed us in a chilling manner, which hinted that, even had we been in time for dinner, we should have been none too welcome at her exclusive board.

Crestfallen, we turned away and started once more in the direction of the Belle Cafe.  In the half light the street held for us a melancholy loveliness.  Above, the great trees made a dark, soft canopy; the air was balmy and sweet with the scent of lilacs and roses; lights were beginning to appear in windows along the way.  Yet none of it was for us.  We were wanderers, condemned forever to walk through strange streets whose homes we might not enter, and whose inhabitants we might not know.

When we had proceeded in silence for a block or two, we perceived a woman strolling toward us on the walk ahead.  Nor was it yet so dark that we could fail to notice, as we neared her, that she was very pretty in her soft black dress and her corsage of narcissus—­that, in short, she was the young lady whom, though we were indebted to her for our rooms at Mrs. Eichelberger’s, we had not been able to thank.

Now, of course, we stopped and told her of our gratitude.  First my companion told her of his.  Then I told her of mine.  Then we both told her of our combined gratitude.  And after each telling she assured us sweetly that it was nothing—­nothing at all.

All this made quite a little conversation.  She hoped that we were comfortable.  We assured her that we were.  Then, because it seemed so pleasant to be talking, on a balmy, flower-scented evening, with a pretty girl wearing a soft black dress and a corsage of narcissus, we branched out, telling her of our successive disappointments as to meals in the house up the street.