more and more afraid of every noise outside and of every little sound within; and it made him so much worse when I told him I had to tell someone else—even his mother—that I didn't dare to. He said other people were sure to find out that he was there, then, and they would kill him—kill him! He was always worst at eleven—eleven o'clock at night; and he dreaded especially eleven o'clock Sunday night—though I couldn't find out what or why!
"I gave him my pistol—the one—the one you saw on the floor in there. It was Friday then; and he had been getting worse and worse all the time. Eleven o'clock every night I managed to be with him; and no one found us out. I was glad I gave him the pistol until this—until this morning. I never thought till then that he might use it to kill himself; but this morning—Sunday morning, when I came to him, he was talking about it—denying it; but I saw it was in his mind! 'I shan't shoot myself!' I heard him saying over and over again, when I came to the door. 'They can't make me shoot myself! I shan't! I shan't!'—over and over, like that. And when he had let me in and I saw him, then I knew—I knew he meant to do it! He asked me if it wasn't Sunday; and went whiter when I told him it was! So then I told him he had to trust someone now; this couldn't go on; and I spoke to him about Mr. Trant; and he said he'd try him; and he wrote the letter I mailed you—special delivery—so you could come when his father and mother were out—but he never once let go my pistol; he was wild—wild with fear. Every
