Rudyard Kipling 213 that is to say. Then I fall back on my hundred and twenty a year, which will be more by that time. Let’s consider. Twenty-five — thirty-five — a man’s in his prime then, they say — forty-five — a middle-aged man just entering politics — fifty-five — ‘died at the comparatively early age of fifty-five, according to the newspapers. Bah! How these Christians funk death! Sixtyfive — we're only getting on in years. Seventy-five is just possible, though. Great hell, cat O! fifty years more of solitary confinement in the dark! You'll die, and Beeton will die, and Torp will die, and Mai — everybody else will die, but I shall be alive and kicking with nothing to do. I’m very sorry for myself. I should like some one else to be sorry for me. Evidently I’m not going ma before I die, but the pain’s just as bad as ever. Some day when you’re vivisected, cat O! they'll tie you down on a little table and cut you open — but don’t be afraid; they'll take precious good care that you don’t die. You'll live, and you'll be very sorry then that you weren't sorry for me. Perhaps Torp will come back or ... 1 wish I could go to Torp and the Nilghai, even though I were in their way.” Pussy left the room before the speech was ended, and Alf, as he entered, found Dick addressing the empty hearth-rug. “There’s a letter for you, sir,” he said. “Perhaps you'd like me to read it.” “Lend it to me for a minute and I'll tell you.” The outstretched hand shook just a little and the voice was not over-steady. It was within the limits of human possibility that — that was no letter from Maisie. He knew the heft of three closed envelopes only too well. It was a foolish hope that the girl should write to him, for he did not realize that there is a wrong which admits of no reparation though the evildoer may with tears and the heart’s best love strive to mend