And then, too quickly, the moment of clearness passed; and he was troubled

about the "Herald," beseeching those near him to put copies of the paper

in his hands, threatening angrily to believe they were deceiving him, that

his paper had suspended, if the three issues of the week were not

instantly produced. What did they mean by keeping the truth from him? He

knew the "Herald" had not come out. Who was there to get it out in his

absence? He raised himself on his elbow and struggled to be up; and they

had hard work to quiet him.

But the next night Meredith waited near his bedside, haggard and

dishevelled. Harkless had been lying in a long stupor; suddenly he spoke,

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quite loudly, and the young surgeon, Gay, who leaned over him, remembered

the words and the tone all his life.

"Away and away--across the waters," said John Harkless. "She was here--

once--in June."

"What is it, John?" whispered Meredith, huskily. "You're easier, aren't

you?"

And John smiled a little, as if, for an instant, his swathed eyes

penetrated the bandages, and saw and knew his old friend again.

That same night a friend of Rodney McCune's sent a telegram from Rouen:

"He is dying. His paper is dead. Your name goes before convention in

September."




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