‘So good of you, so like you, Margaret,’ he murmured.

She sat by him a long time, overwhelmed with pity, but not seldom distressed by his worldly talk. The ruling passion was strong in death. He spoke of his works—of which he had written many in his own name, and of the recognition which he felt assured they would one day meet with; he even told her, with a smile of triumph, that Malone himself had bidden one hundred and thirty guineas for the forged Shakespeare documents. He seemed unable to take a just view of his own behaviour in that transaction, though as to others, he was not only just but generous.

‘Dear Margaret,’ were his last failing words to her: ‘I once gave you a piece of advice, the only thing I had to give—which you did well to follow. I have nothing but the thanks of a dying man to offer you for your having come to bid me farewell, save what I have now to say—which I well know will be news to you. I have been an unfortunate, as well as a misguided, man; my talents have never been acknowledged, and if I had had to live by my wits alone, I should have starved—yes, starved!’ His sharp face darkened, and he raised his feeble hands as if in protest against the judgment of the world. ‘There was one man, Margaret, one among all these millions, and he the very last to whom I should have looked for aid, who caused me to be sought out and gave me help. I have lived more or less upon his bounty ever since. He has never told you of it, Margaret; and now there is no need to tell you; you who know him can guess who it is.’

Margaret’s tears fell fast; it was touching indeed to hear of her husband’s goodness from the lips of his dying rival.

‘Frank is very good to me, dear Willie,’ she sobbed.

‘Yes, yes, I knew it would be so,’ he murmured; ‘honest and true. What is the breath of the world to him who will not even let it know of his good deeds. Yes, yes—kiss me, kiss me for the last time—worth a thousand of me, Margaret, though he was never the Talk of the Town.’

THE END.

LONDON: PRINTED BY
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