ht of beer, put the glass down and
eyed him fixedly.

"That's why I envy you," continued the other.

"I don't want to live, and you do, and yet I dessay I shall be walking
about forty and fifty years after you're dead and forgotten."

"Wot d'ye mean--near the grave?" inquired

Mr. Wilks, somewhat shortly.

"I was referring to your age," replied the other; "it's strange to see
'ow the aged 'ang on to life. You can't 'ave much pleasure at your time
o' life. And you're all alone; the last withered branch left."

"Withered branch!" began Mr. Wilks; "'ere, look 'ere, Teddy----"

"All the others 'ave gone," pursued Mr. Silk, and they're beckoning to
you."

"Let 'em beckon," said Mr. Wilks, coldly. "I'm not going yet."

"You're not young," said Mr. Silk, gazing meditatively at the grate, "and
I envy you that. It can only be a matter of a year or two at most before
you are sleeping your last long sleep."

"Teddy!" protested Mrs. Silk.

"It's true, mother," said the melancholy youth. "Mr. Wilks is old. Why
should 'e mind being told of it? If 'e had 'ad the trouble I've 'ad 'e'd
be glad to go. But he'll 'ave to go, whether 'e likes it or not. It
might be to-night. Who can tell?"

Mr. Wilks, unasked, poured himself out another glass of ale, and drank it
off with the air of a man who intended to make sure of that. It seemed a
trifle more flat than the last.

"So many men o' your age and thereabouts," continued Mr. Silk, "think
that they're going to live on to eighty or ninety, but there's very few
of 'em do. It's only a short while, Mr. Wilks, and the little
children'll be running about over your grave and picking daisies off
of it."

"Ho, will they?" said the irritated Mr. Wilks; "they'd better not let me
catch 'em at it, that's all."

"He's always talking like that now," said Mrs. Silk, not without a
certain pride in her tones; "that's why I asked you in to cheer 'im up."

"All your troubles'll be over then," continued the warning voice, "and in
a month or two even your name'll be forgotten. That's the way of the
world. Think 'ow soon the last five years of your life 'ave passed; the
next five'll pass ten times as fast even if you live as long, which ain't
likely."

"He talks like a clergyman," said Mrs. Silk, in a stage whisper.

Mr. Wilks nodded, and despite his hostess's protests rose to go. He
shook hands with her and, after a short but sharp inward struggle, shook
hands with her son. I