“He locked me in a room with himself, put the key in his pocket, waited until he thought I had gone to sleep, and then threw himself down on the bed with the pistol in his hand and was soon fast asleep.

“But instead of going to sleep I was rapidly getting sober enough to understand what a rat in a hole I had made of myself, and I was so overcome with horror and shame that I felt I would rather die than face my father again.  I put the letter, which he had left lying on a table, in my pocket.  With my knife I took out the screws of the door lock and was soon creeping stealthily downstairs.  As I turned the first street corner I saw that my keeper was rushing after me in hot pursuit.  Day was just breaking, and through the dim, deserted streets I ran at the top of my speed, turning corners, dodging down side streets, trying my best to get out of sight of my pursuer.  He kept close behind me, but at last I reached the docks,—­where I meant to drown myself,—­just enough ahead of him to dodge behind a pile of lumber.

“My sudden appearance startled some poor wretch, who was crouched there, making his preparations for eternity, just as I myself was about to do.  He gave me one scared look, as if he feared I was some one come to stop him, and jumped into the water.  In his sudden leap one foot dragged after him the little pile of clothing and the letter he had been writing.

“I crouched down into a hiding-place, so startled by this sudden apparition, in the very act of doing what I had made up my mind to do, that I drew back from the deed with sudden awe and shrinking.  I had no time to think before my pursuer dashed up, calling my name loudly.  He had seen the suicide and thought it was I. He waited about and watched for the body a while and then went away, and that was the last I ever saw of him.

“When I crawled out of my hiding-place I had no idea what I was going to do.  The suicidal impulse had spent itself, and although I had escaped from my pursuer for the moment I was so afraid of meeting him again that I slunk along like a criminal.  But strong as that fear was, I would rather have met him than faced my father.  Soon I came to a wharf where a steamer was taking aboard passengers for California.  At once my determination was made.  I hurried to a pawnbroker’s shop, and from my watch and what little jewelry I had I realized enough money to buy a steerage ticket, and in a few hours was on my way, under a new name.

“The Boston papers which the next San Francisco steamer brought told me the story of my suicide, of the recovery of my body, and of its burial in our family lot in Mt.  Auburn Cemetery.  I hope the poor wretch whose bones are crumbling under the monument was more worthy of its praises than I.

“After I read that, all thought of the possibility of returning, or of letting them know that I was not dead, dropped from my mind.  I plunged into the furious life of those days with such eagerness and enjoyment that I lost all desire to go back,—­would have had none, even if I had not disgraced my name before I left.