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place as a statesman, had done herculean work by the side of Olivia Winters, who had furnished the inspiration. Thus this great public misfortune had afforded hundreds the opportunity for nobility of conduct, whose lives before had been selfish and proud.

During the very maddest part of the ravages of the curse, Olivia Winters met Mr. Connors on one of her tours.

"I am so comforted to meet you here," she said, and the thought in her mind was, that she rejoiced to see him still alive. "I have just seen the last of Doane, the editor. His death was frightful. Dr. Simpson attended him. Doane, under the influence of the fever, had an idea that it was within the power of the doctor to save his life. Whining like a cur, he said: 'I must have my life, good doctor,' and then he shrieked, 'I cannot die—I must not die—I'll give you $50,000 cash, if you will but save my life.' Then, with a look of agony, he fell back upon his pillow, exhausted, panting like a thirsty dog. Through the day he incessantly kept up this cry; sometimes laughing in defiance, again sobbing. Then, when the doctor left, he muttered to himself: 'I'll fool this cunning Æsculapius. Just let me live; I'll not give him a cent.' Each mad, despairing outbreak tended only to exhaust his small remaining strength. When Dr. Simpson returned, he felt death near at hand. Doane evidently saw reflected in the doctor's eye, his own fatal condition, and with almost superhuman strength, he lifted himself upright in bed. 'Will I die, doctor?' came rattling from his parched throat. 'There is no hope,' said the physician. 'Then bring me pen and paper,' he said. His wish was complied with. 'I will write,' he said. 'It shall be the bitterest screed that ever wounded quaking souls. I'll