Bram Stoker

, what a wealth of sor­row in a few words! Poor Mrs. Westenra! poor Lucy!

But he is right enough about the beds and windows and things

What I saw was the Count’s head com­ing out from the win­dow. I did not

I was not alone. The room was the same, un­changed in any way since I came into it; I could see along the floor, in the bril­liant moon­light, my own foot­step

Some of the “New Wo­men” writers will some day start an idea that men and wo­men should be al­lowed to see each other asleep be­fore pro­pos­ing or ac­cept­ing. But I sup­pose the New Wo­man won’t con­des­cend in fu­ture to ac­cept; she will do the pro­pos­ing her­self. And a nice job she will make of it, too! There’s some con­sol­a­tion in that.

I have been more touched than I can say by your grief. That is a won­der­ful ma­chine, but it is cruelly true. It told me, in its very tones, the an­guish of your heart. It was like a soul cry­ing out to Almighty God. No one must hear them spoken ever again! See, I have tried to be use­ful. I have copied out the words on my type­writer, and none other need now hear your heart beat, as I did.”

Good night, every­body.

I know there is sun­rise be­cause I am a sailor, why else I know not. I dared not go be­low, I dared not leave the helm; so here all night I stayed, and in the dim­ness of the night I saw It—Him! God for­give me, but the mate was right to jump over­board. It was bet­ter to die like a man; to die like a sailor in blue wa­ter no man can ob­ject. But I am cap­tain, and I must not leave my ship. But I shall baffle this fiend or mon­ster, for I shall tie my hands to the wheel when my strength be­gins to fail, and along with them I shall tie that which He—It!—dare not touch; and then, come good wind or foul, I shall save my soul, and my hon­our as a cap­tain. I am grow­ing weaker, and the night is com­ing on. If He can look me in the face again, I may not have time to act. … If we are wrecked, may­hap this bottle may be found, and those who find it may un­der­stand; if not, … well, then all men shall know that I have been true to my trust. God and the Blessed Vir­gin and the saints help a poor ig­nor­ant soul try­ing to do his duty.

We aud folks that be daffled, and with one foot abaft the krok-hooal, don’t al­to­gether like to think of it, and we don’t want to feel scart of it; an’ that’s why I’ve took to makin’ light of it, so that I’d cheer up my own heart a bit. But, Lord love ye, miss, I ain’t afraid of dyin’, not a bit; only I don’t want to die if I can help it. My time must be nigh at hand now, for I be aud, and a hun­dred years is too much for any man to ex­pect; and I’m so nigh it that the Aud Man is already whet­tin’ his scythe. Ye see, I can’t get out o’ the habit of caffin’ about it all at once; the chafts will wag as they be used to. Some day soon the An­gel of Death will sound his trum­pet for me. But don’t ye dooal an’ greet, my deary!”—for he saw that I was cry­ing—“if he should come this very night I’d not re­fuse to an­swer his call. For life be, after all, only a waitin’ for somethin’ else than what we’re doin’; and death be all that we can rightly de­pend on. But I’m con­tent, for it’s comin’ to me, my deary, and comin’ quick. It may be comin’ while we be lookin’ and won­derin’. Maybe it’s in that wind out over the sea that’s bringin’ with it loss and wreck, and sore dis­tress, and sad hearts. Look! look!” he cried sud­denly. “There’s some­thing in that wind and in the hoast beyont that sounds, and looks, and tastes, and smells like death. It’s in the air; I feel it comin’. Lord, make me an­swer cheer­ful when my call comes!” He held up his arms de­voutly, and raised his hat. His mouth moved as though he were pray­ing. After a few minutes’ si­lence, he got up, shook hands with me, and blessed me, and said good­bye, and hobbled off. It all touched me, and up­set me very much.

It was now nearly the hour of high tide, but the waves were so great that in their troughs the shal­lows of the shore were al­most vis­ible, and the schooner, with all sails set, was rush­ing with such speed that, in the words of one old salt, “she must fetch up some­where, if it was only in hell.”