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death. I relinquished my hold, fell backwards and
submitted to the fatal embrace of the dread monster.
Immediately an indescribable calm came over me, a
voluptuous weakness composed my limbs, and perfect
peace soothed body and soul, which had lacked all
wholesome recreation during so many years of toil.
I fervently desired that it really should be the end.
Slowly all will to live ebbed away. I ceased to observe,
to feel, to think. I became unconscious, and a delicious
sensation of blankness filled the void created by the
cessation of the racking pain, the tormenting thoughts, the
secret terrors.
When I regained consciousness I found my wife sitting
by my bedside and gazing at me with terrified eyes.
“What is the matter wdth you, dear?” she said.
“Nothing; I am ill,” I replied. “And there are times
when illness is welcome.”
“What do you mean? You are jesting!”
“No, it is the end at last... anyhow, I hope it is.”
“Heaven forbid that you should leave us in these
straits!” she exclaimed. “What is to become of us in
a strange country, without friends, without means?”
“There is my life insurance,” I said, attempting to
console her. “I know it isn’t much, but it is enough to
take you home.”
She had not thought of this, and she looked a little
reassured as she continued—
“But you cannot lie here like this! I shall send for
a doctor.”
“No, I won’t have a doctor!”
“Why not?”
“Because—I won’t!”
The glances which we exchanged spoke volumes.
“I want to die,” I said, anxious to put an end to our
conversation. “I am sick of life; the past is a tangled
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