March 13th.—­The last day of my stay with Livingstone has come and gone, and the last night we shall be together is present, and I cannot evade the morrow!  I feel as though I would rebel against the fate which drives me away from him.  The minutes beat fast, and grow into hours.

Our door is closed, and we are both of us busy with our own thoughts.  What his thoughts are I know not.  Mine are sad.  My days seem to have been spent in an Elysian field; otherwise, why should I so keenly regret the near approach of the parting hour?  Have I not been battered by successive fevers, prostrate with agony day after day lately?  Have I not raved and stormed in madness?  Have I not clenched my fists in fury, and fought with the wild strength of despair when in delirium?  Yet, I regret to surrender the pleasure I have felt in this man’s society, though so dearly purchased.

I cannot resist the sure advance of time, which flies this night as if it mocked me, and gloated on the misery it created!  Be it so!

How many times have I not suffered the pang of parting with friends!  I wished to linger longer, but the inevitable would come—­Fate sundered us.  This is the same regretful feeling, only it is more poignant, and the farewell may be forever!  FOREVER?  And “FOR EVER,” echo the reverberations of a woful whisper.

I have noted down all he has said to-night; but the reader shall not share it with me.  It is mine!

I am as jealous as he is himself of his Journal; and I have written in German text, and in round hand, on either side of it, on the waterproof canvas cover, “POSITTVELY NOT TO BE OPENED;” to which he has affixed his signature.  I have stenographed every word he has said to me respecting the equable distribution of certain curiosities among his friends and children, and his last wish about “his” dear old friend, Sir Roderick Murchison, because he has been getting anxious about him ever since we received the newspapers at Ugunda, when we read that the old man was suffering from a paralytic stroke.  I must be sure to send him the news, as soon as I get to Aden; and I have promised that he will receive the message from me quicker than anything was ever received in Central Africa.

“To-morrow night, Doctor, you will be alone!”

“Yes; the house will look as though a death had taken place.  You had better stop until the rains, which are now near, are over.”

“I would to God I could, my dear Doctor; but every day I stop here, now that there is no necessity for me to stay longer, keeps you from your work and home.”

“I know; but consider your health—­you are not fit to travel.  What is it?  Only a few weeks longer.  You will travel to the coast just as quickly when the rains are over as you will by going now.  The plains will be inundated between here and the coast.”

“You think so; but I will reach the coast in forty days; if not in forty, I will in fifty—­certain.  The thought that I am doing you an important service will spur me on.”