a man the courage to say things that otherwise he would have kept hidden in the most secret depths of his being.  I feel that my life is drawing to a close.  Do not say no, my dear friend; my presentiments are certain.  I have written it to Ellen.  I have told her other things besides.  What folly!  All I have ever done has been folly or chimera.  I end my life logically, in strict accordance with my whole Past, by making my first avowal of love on my deathbed.  Is not that as useless a thing as can be?”

Hermann would have wished to know some particulars about this letter; but Warren replied, somewhat vaguely, “If I had a copy of my letter, I would show it to you willingly.  You know my whole story, and I would not be ashamed to lay before you my last act of folly.  I wrote about a fortnight ago, when I felt sure that death was drawing near.  I was in a fever, not from fear—­Death gains but little by taking my life—­but from a singular species of excitement.  I do not remember what were the words I used.  Who knows?  Perhaps this last product of my brain may have been quite a poetical performance.  Never mind!  I do not repent of what I have done; I am glad that Ellen should know at last that I have loved her silently and hopelessly.  If that is not disinterested, what is?” he added with a bitter smile.

Christmas went by sadly.  Warren was now so weak that he could scarcely leave his bed for two or three hours each day.  Hermann had taken upon himself to send for a doctor, but this latter had scarcely known what to prescribe.  Warren was suffering from no special malady; he was dying of exhaustion.  Now and then, during a few moments, which became daily more rare and more brief, his vivacity would return; but the shadow of Death was already darkening his mind.

On New Year’s Eve he got up very late.  “We will welcome in the New Year,” he said to Hermann.  “I hope it may bring you happiness; I know it will bring me rest.”  A few minutes before midnight he opened the piano, and played with solemnity, and as if it had been a chorale, a song of Schumann’s, entitled “To the Drinking-cup of a Departed Friend.”  Then, on the first stroke of midnight, he filled two glasses with some old Rhenish wine, and raised his own glass slowly.  He was very pale, and his eyes were shining with feverish light.  He was in a state of strange and fearful excitement.  He looked at the glass which he held, and repeated deliberately a verse of the song which he had just been playing.  “The vulgar cannot understand what I see at the bottom of this cup.”  Then, at one draught, he drained the full glass.

While he was thus speaking and drinking, he had taken no notice of Hermann, who was watching him with consternation.  Recovering himself at length, he exclaimed, “Another glass, Hermann!  To friendship!” He drained this second glass, like the first, to the very last drop; and then, exhausted by the effort he had made, he sank heavily on a chair.  Soon after, Hermann led him, like a sleepy child, to his bed.