ake
a man know how large, the heart is, and how little the world, till
he comes home (perhaps after a hard day's hunting) and sees his own
fireside, and hears one dear welcome; and--oh, by the way, Caleb, if you
could but see my boy, the sturdiest little rogue! But enough of this.
All that vexes me is, that I've never yet been able to declare my
marriage: my uncle, however, suspects nothing: my wife bears up against
all, like an angel as she is; still, in case of any accident, it occurs
to me, now I'm writing to you, especially if you leave the place, that
it may be as well to send me an examined copy of the register. In those
remote places registers are often lost or mislaid; and it may be useful
hereafter, when I proclaim the marriage, to clear up all doubt as to the
fact.

"Good-bye, old fellow,

"Yours most truly, &c., &c."

"It comes too late," sighed Caleb, heavily; and the letter fell from his
hands. There was a long pause. "Close the shutters," said the sick man,
at last; "I think I could sleep: and--and--pick up that letter."

With a trembling, but eager gripe, he seized the paper, as a miser would
seize the deeds of an estate on which he has a mortgage. He smoothed
the folds, looked complacently at the well-known hand, smiled--a ghastly
smile! and then placed the letter under his pillow, and sank down; they
left him alone. He did not wake for some hours, and that good clergyman,
poor as himself, was again at his post. The only friendships that are
really with us in the hour of need are those which are cemented
by equality of circumstance. In the depth of home, in the hour of
tribulation, by the bed of death, the rich and the poor are seldom found
side by side. Caleb was evidently much feebler; but his sense seemed
clearer than it had been, and the instincts of his native kindness were
the last that left him. "There is something he wants me do for him," he
muttered.

"Ah! I remember: Jones, will you send for the parish register? It is
somewhere in the vestry-room, I think--but nothing's kept properly.
Better go yourself--'tis important."

Mr. Jones nodded, and sallied forth. The register was not in the vestry;
the church-wardens knew nothing about it; the clerk--a new clerk, who
was also the sexton, and rather a wild fellow--had gone ten miles off to
a wedding: every place was searched; till, at last, the book was found,
amidst a heap of old magazines and dusty papers, in the parlour of
Caleb himself.