“What has become of B—?” said my landlord one day as we met in the hall.  “I have been here to see him several times, and found his door locked, and his letters and newspapers have not been touched.  There is something the matter, I fear.”

Instantly I felt somehow that there was a tragedy in the air, and I had a strange feeling of awe as I passed the door of B—­’s room.,

A policeman was brought, the lock forced, and we went in.  A sickening odor of chloroform filled the room.  The sight that met our gaze made us shudder.  Across the bed was lying the form of a man partly dressed, his head thrown back, his eyes staring upward, his limbs hanging loosely over the bedside.

“Is he dead?” was asked in a whisper.

“No,” said the officer, with his finger on B—­’s wrist; “he is not dead yet, but he will never wake out of this.  He has been lying thus two or three days.”

A physician was sent for, and all possible efforts made to rouse him, but in vain.  About sunset the pulse ceased to beat, and it was only a lump of lifeless clay that lay there so still and stark.  This was his death—­the mystery of his life went back beyond my knowledge of him, and will only be known at the judgment-day.

One of the gayest and brightest of all the young people gathered at a May-day picnic, just across the bay from San Francisco, was Ada D—.  The only daughter of a wealthy citizen, living in one of the lovely valleys beyond the coast-range of mountains, beautiful in person and sunny in temper, she was a favorite in all the circle of her associations.  Though a petted child of fortune, she was not spoiled, Envy itself was changed into affection in the presence of a spirit so gentle, unassuming, and loving.  She had recently been graduated from one of the best schools, and her graces of character matched the brilliance of her pecuniary fortune.

A few days after the May-day festival, as I was sitting in my office, a little before sunset, there was a knock at the door, and before I could answer the messenger entered hastily, saying: 

“I want you to go with me at once to Amador Valley.  Ada D—­is dying, and wishes to be baptized.  We just have time for the six o’clock boat to take us across the bay, where the carriage and horses are waiting for us.  The distance is thirty miles, and we must run a race against death.”

We started at once:  no minister of Jesus Christ hesitates to obey a summons like that.  We reached the boat while the last taps of the last bell were being given, and were soon at the landing on the opposite side of the bay.  Springing ashore, we entered the vehicle which was in readiness.  Grasping the reins, my companion touched up the spirited team, and we struck across the valley.  My driver was an old Californian, skilled in all horse craft and road-craft.  He spoke no word, putting his soul and body into his work, determined, as he had said, to make the thirty miles by nine o’clock.