Dream and reality were blended.
"I suppose you did not write anything last night after we said goodnight?" she said. "I wish you had; you are my poet, and shall remain so!"
I thought that she smiled somewhat slyly. I did not know if it were the Aunty Milly who loved me, or the terrible one to whom I had made the promise of last night.
"Have you written any poetry, dear child?"
"No, no!" I shouted. "Are you really Aunty Milly?"
"Who else?" she said. It was really Aunty Milly.
She kissed me, got into a carriage, and drove home.
I jotted down what is written here. It is not in verse, and it shall never be printed.
Here ended the manuscript.
My young friend, the grocer's assistant, could not find the missing sheets; they had gone out into the world like the papers round the salted herrings, the butter, and the soft soap; they had fulfilled their destiny!
The brewer is dead, aunty is dead, the student is dead, he whose sparks of genius went into the tub. Nota bene—everything goes into the tub. This is the end of the story—the story of Aunty Toothache.
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