uite peart. 'I'll take it myself.' An' if ye'll
believe me, David, 'e sits down an' writes me what 'e calls a 'Memo' of
what 'e wants put on the grave stone, an' it's the biggest whopper I've
iver seen out o' the noospapers. I've got it 'ere--" And, referring to a
much worn and battered old leather pocket-book, Twitt drew from it a
soiled piece of paper, and read as follows--

Here lies
All that is Mortal
of
CATHERINE TIMBS
The Dearly Beloved Wife
of
Samuel Timbs of Weircombe.
She Died
At the Early Age of Forty-Nine
Full of Virtues and Excellencies
Which those who knew Her
Deeply Deplore
and
NOW is in Heaven.

"And the only true thing about that hepitaph,"--continued Twitt, folding
up the paper again and returning it to its former receptacle,--"is the
words 'Here Lies.'"

Helmsley laughed, and Twitt laughed with him.

"Some folks 'as the curiousest ways o' wantin' theirselves remembered
arter they're gone"--he went on--"An' others seems as if they don't care
for no mem'ry at all 'cept in the 'arts o' their friends. Now there was
Tom o' the Gleam, a kind o' gypsy rover in these parts, 'im as murdered
a lord down at Blue Anchor this very year's July----"

Helmsley drew a quick breath.

"I know!" he said--"I was there!"

"So I've 'eerd say,"--responded Twitt sympathetically--"An' an awsome
sight it must a' bin for ye! Mary Deane told us as 'ow ye'd bin ravin'
about Tom--an' m'appen likely it give ye a turn towards yer long
sickness."

"I was there,"--said Helmsley, shuddering at the recollection--"I had
stopped on the road to try and get a cheap night's lodging at the very
inn where the murder took place--but--but there were two murders that
day, and the _first_ one was the worst!"

"That's what I said at the time, an' that's what I've allus
thought!"--declared Twitt--"Why that little 'Kiddie' child o' Tom's was
the playfullest, prettiest little rogue ye'd see in a hundred mile or
more! 'Oldin' out a posy o' flowers to a motor-car, poor little
innercent! It might as well 'ave 'eld out flowers to the devil!--though
my own opinion is as the devil 'imself wouldn't 'a ridden down a child.
But a motorin' lord o' these days is neither man nor beast nor
devil,--'e's a somethin' altogether _on_human--_on_human out an' out,--a
thing wi' goggles over his