ss of that day; naming each article
that had been sold, and the cost and the profit thereof.

"How's that with last year?" her father commanded.

"Two-fifteen below."

"Fool!" John whispered. "You are a cow, with your gamey leg. You're
ruining the place."

Ann closed the book and put her fountain pen in the leather case which
was pinned to her blouse, and she spoke this greeting: "How are you,
Nuncle Silas. It's long since I've seen you." She thrust out her arched
teeth in a smile. "Good-night, now. You must call and see our Richmond
establishment."

"Silas," said John, "empty a dose of the medecyne in a cup for me."

"There's little comfort in medecyne," Silas observed. "Not much use is
the stuff if the Lord is calling you home. Calling you home. Shall I
read you a piece from the Beybile of the Welsh? It is a great pity you
have forgot the language of your mother."

"I did not hear you," said John. "Don't you trouble to say it over." He
drank the medicine. "Unfortunate was the row about the Mermaid Agency. I
was sorry to take it away from you, but if I hadn't some one else would.
We kept it in the family, Silas."

"I have prayed a lot," said Silas to his brother, "that me and you are
brought together before the day of the death. Nothing can break us from
being brothers."

"You are very doleful. I shall shift this little cold."

"Yes-yes, you will. I would be glad to follow your coffin to Wales and
look into the guard's van at stations where the train stop, but the
fare is big and the shop is without a assistant. Weep until I am sore
all over I shall in Capel Shirland Road. When did the doctor give you
up?"

"He's a donkey. He doesn't know nothing. Here he is once per day and
charging for it. And he only brings his repairs to me."

"The largest charge will be to take you to your blessed home," said
Silas. "The railway need a lot of money for to carry a corpse. I feel
quite sorrowful. In Heaven you'll remember that I was at your deathbed."

John did not answer.

"Well-well," said Silas, whispering loudly, "making his peace with the
Big Man he is"; and he went away, moaning a funereal hymn tune.

John thought over his plight and was distressed, and he spoke to God in
Welsh: "Not fitting that you leave the daughter fach alone. Short in
her leg you made her. There's a set-back. Her mother perished; and did I
complain? An orphan will the pitiful wench be. Who will care for the
shop? And the repairing workm