A little while after he roused himself from a slumber to say, “You will be surprised to find yourself named in my will; please don’t have any scruples about accepting the inheritance.  I want my niece, of course, to reign in my stead; but if you outlive her, all is to go to you.  I want you to live on in this place, to stand by her in her loneliness, as a brother by a sister.  I want you to help and work for my dear people here, to be tender and careful for them.  There are many things that a man can do which a woman cannot; and your difficulty will be to find a hem for your life.  Remember that there is no one who is injured by this—­my niece is my only living relation; so accept this as your post in life; it will not be a hard one.  It is strange,” he added, “that one should cling to such trifles; but I should like you to take my name, if you will; and you must find some one to succeed you; I wish it could have been your own boy, whom I have learnt to love.”

Miss ——­ came in shortly after, and Mr. ——­ said to her, “Yes, I have told him, and he consents.  You do consent, do you not?” I said, “Yes, dear friend, of course I consent; and consent gratefully, for you have given me a work in the world.”  And then I took Miss ——­’s hand across the bed and kissed it; the old man laid his hands upon our heads very tenderly and said, “Brother and sister to the end.”

I thought he was tired then, and made as if to leave him, but he said, “Do not go, my son.”  He lay smiling to himself, as if well pleased.  Then a sudden change came over his face, and I saw that he was going; we knelt beside him, and his last words were words of blessing.

October 12, 1891.

This book has been my companion through some very strange, sad, terrible, and joyful hours; my faithful companion, my silent friend, my true confessor.  I have felt the need of utterance, the imperative instinct—­the most primitive, the most childish of instincts—­to tell my pains and hopes and dreams.  I could not utter them, at the time, to another.  I could not let the voice of my groaning reach the ears of any human being.  Perhaps it would have been better for us both, if I could have said it all to my dearest Maud.  But a sort of courtesy forbade my redoubling my monotonous lamentations; her burden was heavy enough without that.  I can hardly dignify it with the name of manliness or chivalry, because my frame of mind during those first months, when I lost the power of writing, was purely despicable; and then, too, I did not want sympathy; I wanted help; and help no one but God could give me; half my time was spent in a kind of dumb prayer to Him, that He would give me some sort of strength, some touch of courage; for a helpless cowardice was the note of my frame of mind.  Well, He has sent me strength—­I recognise that now—­not by lightening the load, but by making it insupportably heavy and yet showing me that I had the strength to carry it; I am still in the dark as to why I deserved so sore a punishment, and I cannot yet see that the loneliness to which He has condemned me is the help that is proportioned to my need.  But I walk no longer in a vain shadow.  I have known affliction by the rod of His wrath.  But the darkness in which I walk is not the darkness of thickening gloom, but the darkness of the breaking day.