The aged road-mender, to his intense surprise and chagrin, had one morning found himself unable to rise from his bed.  He lay there for a week, indignant with Providence for thus wasting his time.

“There bain’t nart the matter wi’ I!  Then why be I a-farced to lie thic way?” he said faintly.  “If zo be I wor bod, I cude understand, but I bain’t bod.  There bain’t no pain tu speak on no-wheres.  It vair beats my yunderstanding.”

“Tis old age be the matter wi’ yu, vather,” said his mate, a young fellow of sixty or so, who lodged with him.

“I bain’t nigh so yold as zum,” said Happy Jack, peevishly.  “Tis a nice way vor a man tu be tuke, wi’out a thing the matter wi’ un, vor the doctor tu lay yold on.”

Dr. Blundell soothed him by giving his illness a name.

“It’s Anno Domini, Jack.”

“What be that?  I niver yeard till on’t befar,” he said suspiciously.

“It’s incurable, Jack,” said the doctor, gravely.

Happy Jack was consoled.  He rolled out the word with relish to his next visitor.

“Him’s vound it out at last.  ’Tis the anny-dominy, and ’tis incurable.  You’m can’t du nart vor I. I got tu go; and ‘taint no wonder, wi’ zuch a complaint as I du lie here wi’.  The doctor were vair beat at vust; but him worried it out wi’ hisself tu the last.  Him’s a turble gude doctor, var arl he wuden’t go tu the war.”

Sarah visited him every day.  He was so frail and withered a little object that it seemed as though he could waste no further, and yet he dwindled daily.  But he suffered no pain, and his wits were bright to the end.

This evening the faint whistle of his voice was fainter than ever, and she had to bend very low to catch his gasping words.  He lay propped up on the pillows, with a red scarf tied round the withered scrag of his throat, and his spotless bed freshly arrayed by his mate’s mother, who lived with them and “did for” both.

“They du zay as Master Peter be carting of ’ee, Miss Zairy,” he whispered.  “Be it tru?”

“Yes, Jack dear, it’s true.  Are you glad?”

“I be glad if yu thinks yu’ll git ’un,” wheezed poor Jack. “’Twude be a turble gude job var ’ee tu git a yusband.  But doan’t ’ee make tu shar on ’un, Miss Zairy.  ’Un du zay as him be turble vond on yu, and as yu du be playing vast and loose wi’ he.  That’s the ways a young maid du go on, and zo the young man du slip thru’ ’un’s vingers.”

“Yes, Jack,” said Sarah, with unwonted meekness.

She looked round the little unceiled room, open on one side to the wooden staircase which led to the kitchen below; at the earth-stained corduroys hanging on a peg; at the brown mug which held Happy Jack’s last meal, and all he cared to take—­a thin gruel.