ow and then found their way
into the village; that, as he sauntered along the brookside, his clothes
hung loose on his limbs, and that he no longer "whistled as he went;"
alas, he was no longer "in want of thought!" By degrees, the walks
themselves were suspended; the parson was no longer visible: a stranger
performed his duties.

One day, it might be some three years and more after the fatal visit I
have commemorated--one very wild rough day in early March, the postman,
who made the round of the district, rang at the parson's bell. The
single female servant, her red hair loose on her neck, replied to the
call.

"And how is the master?"

"Very bad;" and the girl wiped her eyes.

"He should leave you something handsome," remarked the postman, kindly,
as he pocketed the money for the letter.

The pastor was in bed--the boisterous wind rattled clown the chimney and
shook the ill-fitting casement in its rotting frame. The clothes he
had last worn were thrown carelessly about, unsmoothed, unbrushed; the
scanty articles of furniture were out of their proper places; slovenly
discomfort marked the death-chamber. And by the bedside stood a
neighbouring clergyman, a stout, rustic, homely, thoroughly Welsh
priest, who might have sat for the portrait of Parson Adams.

"Here's a letter for you," said the visitor.

"For me!" echoed Caleb, feebly. "Ah--well--is it not very dark, or are
my eyes failing?" The clergyman and the servant drew aside the curtains
and propped the sick man up: he read as follows, slowly, and with
difficulty:

"DEAR, CALEB,--At last I can do something for you. A friend of mine has
a living in his gift just vacant, worth, I understand, from three to
four hundred a year: pleasant neighbourhood--small parish. And my
friend keeps the hounds!--just the thing for you. He is, however, a
very particular sort of person--wants a companion, and has a horror of
anything evangelical; wishes, therefore, to see you before he decides.
If you can meet me in London, some day next month, I'll present you to
him, and I have no doubt it will be settled. You must think it strange I
never wrote to you since we parted, but you know I never was a very good
correspondent; and as I had nothing to communicate advantageous to you
I thought it a sort of insult to enlarge on my own happiness, and so
forth. All I shall say on that score is, that I've sown my wild oats;
and that you may take my word for it, there's nothing that can m