Never again! Because she died," he added after a pause; "my Alice died." He shed no tears, being so old that the time of tears was well-nigh past--at seventy-five the eyes are drier than at forty, and one is no longer surprised or disappointed, and seldom even angry, whatever happens.
But he opened the letter in his hand and read it again mechanically.
It was written on thin foreign paper, and the creases of the folds had become gaping rents.

It was dated September, 1866, just eighteen years back.
"When you read these lines," the letter said, "I shall be in the silent land, whither Alice, my wife, has gone before me.

It would be a strange thing only to think upon this journey which lies before me, and which I must take alone, had I time left for thinking.

But I have not.

I may last a week, or I may die in a few hours.