gave no reminiscence of my once plump face and rounded form. My voice, the mere ghost of a sound, was hardly the semblance of its former resonant self.
At first I was not permitted to excite myself by too eager inquiry, but as I gained strength, those about me, who of course had known nothing about my intended collaboration with Brathwaite, set to work to ascertain something concerning the events of that September night in which I had been so swiftly snatched up to the seventh heaven of expectancy, and as suddenly dropped to earth again.
There was nothing reassuring in the tidings of a month age. The enthusiast, roused from slumber by the shrill cry of fire, sought to save his papers rather than his person; traversed passage after passage claimed by the invading flames; and bore treasure after treasure to the lower hall. But in penetrating to some distant stairway, which gave way under his daring footsteps, he inhaled flame, and although rescued by the bravery of the firemen, was borne from the seething, roaring furnace—only to die.
So, then, the manuscript which the noble soul
