though I am—­that his end was so near as it proved to be; for although certainly much exhausted and agitated with the exertion of telling me his story, I did not then perceive any immediate cause for apprehension.  Still less did I understand that he was then actually dying; on the contrary, I began to think that my first impressions of his danger when I entered the room that afternoon had been erroneous, and that the change I had observed in him might possibly be an indication of temporary revival.  At all events, I fancied the cup of tea which was then being made ready, would be of great use in stimulating and refreshing him after the weariness caused by his long talk, and I promised myself that if I could only persuade him to silence for the rest of the evening, he would be none the worse for the recent gratification of his whim.  We sat some time by the open window, watching the sun as it sank lower and lower into the golden-sheeted west, and some unconnected speculations were straying through my mind about `the sea of glass mingled with fire,’ when the old man’s words aroused me in the midst of my dreaming, and the voice in which he spoke was so unusual and so soft that it startled me.

“`Doctor,’ he said, `I think I am dying.’

“I sprang from my seat and stood at his side in a moment, but before the utterance had well passed from his lips, I perceived that it was no mere invalid’s fancy.

“‘Thirty-five years ago,’ he continued, speaking still in that new unusual voice,—­`thirty-five years ago this very selfsame day, my Adelais died in my arms as the sun went down.  Today, as the sun goes down, I shall die also.’

“Surely,” cried I, “this is a very singular incident!  Does it not seem so to you!  This evening, then, was actually the anniversary of poor Miss Cameron’s death!  How strange!”

“It certainly appeared so to me at first,” he rejoined.  “But when my mind reverted to it afterwards, I thought it exceedingly probable that his own knowledge of the fact had itself hastened his end, for he had no doubt been long brooding over it, and maybe desired that his death should occur that particular day and hour.  In his enfeebled condition, such a desire would have great physical effect; I have known several similar cases.  But however that may have been, I of course have no certain means of deciding.  I have already told you, that immediately on my entering his chamber in the afternoon, he expressed to me his conviction that tonight he should go to his `long rest,’ and in the certainty of that conviction, related to me the story you have heard.  But though it has been the necessary lot of my calling to be present at so many deathbeds, I never before witnessed a calmer or a more peaceful end than Stephen Gray’s.  In his changed face, in his watchful eyes, in every placid feature of his countenance, I beheld the quiet anticipation of that `long rest’ about which he had spoken so contentedly an hour or two since.