in' yeou about?" He said, "It's Mary's
child." The owd man tarned round as if he'd bin shot, and went home all
himpin' along. Folks heared him saa, "Mary's child! Lord! Lord!" When
he got in, he sot down, and nivver spook a wadd, 'cept now and then,
"Mary's child! Lord! Lord!" He coun't ate no dinner; but he towd 'em
to go for my mother; and when she come, he saa to her, "Missus, yeou must
git me to bed." And there he laa all night, nivver slapin' a bit, but
goin' on saain, "Mary's child! _Lord_! _Lord_!" quite solemn like.
Sumtimes he'd saa, "I've bin a bad un in my time, I hev."

Next mornin' Mr James sent for the doctor. But when he come, Owd Master
said, "Yeou can do nothin' for me; I oon't take none o' yar stuff." No
more he would. Then Mr James saa, "Would yeou like to see the parson?"
He din't saa nothin' for some time, then he said, "Yeou may send for
him." When the parson come--and he was a nice quite {63} owd gentleman,
we were werry fond of him--he went up and staa'd some time; but he nivver
said nothin' when he come down. Howsomdiver, Owd Master laa more quiter
arter that, and when they axed him to take his med'cin he took it. Then
he slep' for some hours, and when he woke up he called out quite clear,
"James." And when Mr James come, he saa to him, "James," sez he, "I ha'
left ivrything to yeou; do yeou see that Mary hev her share." You notiz,
he din't saa, "Mary's child," but "Mary hev her share." Arter a little
while he said, "James, I should like to see the little chap." He warn't
far off, and my mother made him tidy, and brushed his hair and parted it.
Then she took him up, and put him close to the bed. Owd Master bod 'em
put the curtain back, and he laa and looked at Master Charley. And then
he said, quite slow and tendersome, "Yeou're a'most as pritty as your
mother was, my dear."

Them was the last words he ivver spook.

Mr James nivver married, and when he died he left ivrything to Master
Charley.

EDWARD FITZGERALD: AN AFTERMATH.

My earliest recollections of FitzGerald go back to thirty-six years. He
and my father were old friends and neighbours--in East Suffolk, where
neighbours are few, and fourteen miles counts for nothing. They never
were great correspondents, for what they had to say to one another they
said mostly by word of mouth. So there were notes, but no letters; and
the notes have nearly all perished. In the summer of 1859 we were
staying at Ald