ilosophically, and, it would occasionally appear, with an odd
pleasure in his own importance.

"Eh, I sometimes think it 'ud be a mercy if th' Lord 'ud tak' him,"
says the middle-aged daughter of a paralysed labourer, eyeing him
dispassionately. "Doctor says he'll never be no better, an' I'm sure
he's a misery to hissel', as well's every one else. Aren't ye,
feyther?"

"Ah," grunts feyther. "I'd be fain to go. I would--I'd be fain."

"What wi's restin' so bad o' neets, an' th' gettin' up an' down to
him, an' feedin' him, an' shiftin' him--he's that 'eavy I cannot stir
him mysel'--I 'ave to wait till th' lads comes back fro' work--eh,
it's weary work! I'm very nigh killed wi't."

"Well, but if he gets better, you know," suggests the visitor, "you'll
be glad to have nursed him so well."

"Eh, he'll noan get better now; doctor says he hasn't a chance."

The patient, who has been listening with close attention, and not a
little satisfaction, to his daughter's report, now rolls his eyes
towards his interlocutor.

"Nay, nay, I'll noan get better," he observes somewhat resentfully.
"Tisn't to be expected. I'm gettin' on for seventy-eight, an' this
here's my second stroke."

"Ah, his constitution's worn out," adds the woman; "that was what
doctor said. ''Tisn't to be expected as he could recover,' says he;
'his constitution's worn out.'"

The rugged old face on the pillow is indeed lined and wrinkled; the
one big hand lying outside the coverlet is gnarled and knotted, like
the branch of an ancient tree; the form outlined by the bedclothes is
of massive proportions. A fine wreck of a man this useless cumberer of
the earth.

"I shouldn't be worth my mate if I did get better," he says,
reflectively, and without the faintest trace of bitterness. "Nought
but lumber--in every one's road. Nay, I'd a deal sooner shift
a'together. I've allus worked 'ard--it 'ud not coom nat'ral to be
idle. I'm ready to go, if it's the A'mighty's will."

"Eh, He'll be like to tak' ye soon, feyther. He will--He'll tak' ye
afore aught's long," says the daughter. "Raly," she adds, as she
pilots her visitor downstairs after this consolatory remark, "it's
a'most to be 'oped as He will."

Yet when He does, and poor feyther is carried away to his long home by
his sons and cronies, there is genuine distress in the little
household. When the daughter has got her "blacks," and drawn the club
money, and the excitement of the funeral is over, she has