"Now," said the old man, "take this in shorthand, to my wife, care Platz & Company, Bankers, 18 Rue Scribe, Paris, France.
"Dear Marion: Except for those three pleasant days last summer we haven't seen each other for six years, and as you will know long before you read this, we shan't see each other alive again.
"I deeply regret that, especially of later years, our marriage has been so unsuccessful. I apprehend clearly that the fault lay with me insofar as I—quote—had grown so very prosy—end quote—as you remarked last summer.
"My last wish is that you will bring Elsie home and keep her here until she marries some decent American with an occupation. Underline those last three words, Miss Connor. She is now a young woman of seventeen, and it was evident to me last summer that her head is fast becoming stuffed with nonsense. She is learning to look down on her country and her countrymen and mark my words—underline mark my words, Miss Connor—if you encourage her to marry some foreign scamp she will be very unhappy. I know you don't agree with these views, but I know they are sound, and if you keep Elsie over there you will live to see that proved; although I hope not.
"Give my love to Elsie and remind her of her old dad now and then.
"Good-bye, Marion. You and Elsie are the only women I ever loved.
"That's all, Miss Connor. Now what I want you to do is this: If I don't come out of this operation—appendicitis—please write that up and mail it. Just sign it Fred. If I do get well, destroy your notes and don't send the letter.
"Oh, you better add a postscript—P.S. I am dictating this because I have neither the time nor the strength to write myself. I was attacked suddenly."
Two nurses and a doctor who had been waiting now gathered about the old man, lifted him gently to the bed and began to undress him. He held out his hand. "Good-bye, Miss Connor," he said.
He died, and Georgia sent the letter to his wife.