t his hand.

"We were so sorry to hear at the house," he said, "that there was
trouble here. I did not learn quite clearly what it was, but I
thought I would ride over to see if there was anything I could do."

Arthur knew quite enough of the poor to be sure that it was always
best to plunge straight into the subject in hand, be it never so
grim or painful. Life has no veneering for them; they look hard
realities in the face and meet them as they can. They are the true
philosophers, and their straightforwardness about grief and disease
is not callousness; it is directness, and generally means as much,
if not more, feeling than the hysterical wailings of more cultivated
emotion, more organized nerves.

"Yes, sir," she said to me, with that strange dignity of language
that trouble gives to the poor, just raising her apron to her eyes,
"it's my master, sir--Mr. Keighley, sir. The doctor has given him
up, and he's only waiting to die. It don't give him much pain, his
complaint; and it leaves his head terrible clear. But he's fearful
afraid to die, sir; and that's where it is.

"Not that he's not lived a good life; been to church and paid his
rent and tithe reg'lar, been sober and industrious and good to his
people; but I think, sir," she said, "that there's one kind of
trembling and fearfulness that we can't get over: he keeps saying
that he's afraid to meet his God. He won't say as he's got anything
on his mind; and, truthfully, I don't think he has. But he can't go
easy, sir; and I think a sight of your face, if I may make so bold,
would do him, maybe, a deal of good."

"I shall be very glad to see him, if he cares to see me," said
Arthur. "Has Mr. Spencer" (the clergyman) "been here?"

"Yes, sir," said the woman; "but he don't seem to do George no good.
He's prayed with him--the Church prayers out of his blue prayer-book;
but, after that, all he could say was, 'you must prepare to meet your
God; are you at peace with Him? Remember the judgment;' when I can't
help thinking that God would be much more pleased if George could
forget it. He can't like to see us crawling to meet Him, and cryin'
for fear, like as Watch does if his master has beat him for stealin'.
But I dare not say so to him, sir--we never know, and I have no
right to set myself up over the parson's head."

I confess that I felt frightfully helpless as we followed her into
the house. There was a bright fire burning; a table spread in a
troubled untid