He did not read any of these letters; he carried them over to the
fireplace and burned them one by one. The last, the very last one, he
pulled halfway-out of its envelope and looked at it a moment; then he
burned also that, without taking out the ring.
The little clock on the wall struck four. A steamer's whistle sounded. Ole
went away from the fireplace. His face was full of anguish; every feature
was distorted; the veins around his temples were swollen. And slowly he
pulled out a little drawer in his desk.
* * * * *
They found Ole Henriksen dead in the morning; he had shot himself. The
lamp was burning on the desk; a few sealed letters were lying on the
blotter; he himself lay stretched on the floor.
In the letter to Tidemand he had asked to be forgiven because he could not
come for the last time and thank him for his friendship. He had to finish
it all now; he could not live another day; he was sick unto death. The
country house he gave to Tidemand in memory of everything. "It will
probably bring you more pleasure than it brought me," he wrote; "it is
yours, my friend; accept it from me.
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