t,
and quite incapable, after years of blind acceptance, of correcting
Naomi's logic.

No more was said on the matter. The next Saturday, after receiving his
shilling, Mr. Geake knelt down without any hesitation. It was clear he
wished this prayer to be a weekly institution, and an institution it
became.

The women never knelt. Naomi, indeed, had never sanctioned the
innovation, unless by her silence, and her mother assisted only with a
very lugubrious "Amen," being too weak to stir from her chair. As the
months passed, it became evident to Geake that her strength would
never come back. The fever had left her, apparently for good; but the
rheumatism remained, and closed slowly upon the heart. The machine was
worn out.

When the end came, Naomi had been doing the work single-handed for
close upon twelve months. She could always get a plenty of work, and
now took in a deal too much for her strength, to settle the doctor's
and undertaker's bills, and buy herself a black gown, cape, and
bonnet. The funeral, of course, took place on a Sunday. Geake, on the
Saturday afternoon, knocked gently at Naomi's door. His single
intent was to speak a word or two of sympathy, if she would listen.
Remembering her constant attitude under the Divine scourge, he felt a
trifle nervous.

But there lay the shilling in the centre of the table, and there stood
Naomi in a cloud of steam, hard at work on an immoderate pile of
washing--even a man's miscalculating eye could see that it was
immoderate.

"I didn't call--" he began, with a glance towards the shilling.

"No; I know you didn't. But you may so well take it all the same."

Geake had rehearsed a small speech, but found himself making out and
signing the voucher as usual; and, as usual, when it was signed, he
drew over a chair, and dropped on his knees. In prayer-meeting he was
a great hand at "improving" an occasion of bereavement; but here again
his will to speak impressively suddenly failed him. His words were:

"Lord, there were two women grinding at a mill; the one was taken, and
t'other left. She that you took, you've a-carr'd beyond our prayers;
but O, be gentle, be gentle, to her that's left!"

He arose, and looked shyly, almost shamefacedly, at Naomi. She had not
turned. But her head was bowed; and, drawing near, he saw that the
scalding tears were falling fast into the wash-tub. She had not wept
when her husband was lost, nor since.

"Go away!" she commanded, before h