"I see," said Lane; "my time is come; and I am not unwilling to go, for I am a sore burthen to you and Mary, now you're in trouble. I know you're very kind," he added, seeing Tracy about to protest; "but it's high time I was under ground. God knows—God knows I have had a sore struggle, and it's not over yet! To see you so poor, in want of everything, and to know that I could help you. I sometimes think there could be no great harm in it either. The Lord have mercy upon me! What am I saying?"
"You had better not talk any more, but try to sleep till Mary comes in," said Tracy, concluding his mind was beginning to wander.
"No, no," said Lane; "that won't do: I must say it now. You remember that parcel we saved from the fire?"
"Yes I do," answered Tracy, looking about. "Where is it? I've never seen it since."
"It's here!" said Lane, drawing it from under his pillow. "Look there," he added: "not to be opened till after my death. You observe?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Not to be opened till after my death. But as soon as I am gone, take it to Mr. Jonas Aldridge: it belongs to him. There is a letter inside explaining everything; and I have asked him to be good to you and Mary for the sake of—for the sake of the hard, hard struggle I have had in poverty and sickness, when I saw her young cheek fading with want and work; and now again, when you are all suffering, and little Tracy too, with his thin pale face that used to be so round and rosy: but it will soon be over, thank God! You will be sure to deliver it into his own hands?"
"I give you my word I will, sir."
"Take it away then, and let me see it no more; but hide it from Mary, and tell her nothing about it."
"I will not, sir. And now you must try to rest."