“‘Come, Brother John,’ says I, ’’tis a sad loss, as we do all know, but you must bear up.’

“‘’Tisn’t only the loss o’ poor Sarah,’ says he, ‘’tis—­’tis,’ an’ his ’eart were that full he couldn’t say no more, but jist held out the bank-book to me.  My dear, there weren’t above three pound in it!”

“Dear heart alive!” ejaculated Mrs. Cross, clapping her hands together, “I never heerd o’ such a thing i’ my life.  Why,” she added energetically, “it ‘ud scarce pay for the whitewash!  An’ yet he gave her a nice funeral, ye tell me?”

“’E—­es, my dear.  Ye see, ’tis this way.  Brother John be a very just man, an’ so soon as he did get over his first disappointment, he did say to I, m’urnful like, but very patient—­

“‘Mary,’ he says, ‘it weren’t what I did look for, an’ it weren’t what I were led to expect, but takin’ one thing wi’ another,’ says he, ’I don’t regret it.  Poor Sarah was a wonderful hand at managin’ pigs,’ says he, ‘an I never see’d her equal for bringin’ up chicken.  No!’ he says, ‘I don’t regret it.’”

“Well, he couldn’t say no fairer than that,” commented Mrs. Cross admiringly.  “Yes,” she added, drawing a long breath, “’tis just what you do say, Mrs. Domeny—­it be a reg’lar romance.”

GILES IN LUCK

Giles Maine sat in the middle of the ward, his hands crossed on his new umbrella, while his fellow-inmates gathered together in knots and stared at him, some curiously, some enviously, some a little regretfully, though all were ready to wish him God-speed when the moment of parting came.

By a strange turn of Fortune’s wheel, Giles Maine, the oldest inmate of Branston Union, who had in truth for twenty years known no other home, now found himself, at the age of seventy-eight, a comparatively wealthy man.  A distant relative, a relative so distant indeed that Giles had been unaware of his existence, had recently died intestate, and Giles proved to be his next-of-kin.

It had taken him some time to grasp the situation, and to understand that he was now free to live where he would, in a position of comfort, not to say affluence.  Everybody had taken him in hand, however; the master had ordered a brand-new suit of clothes for him; the matron had engaged rooms in the village, and had put him under the charge of his future landlady, who was a motherly sort of woman, and could be trusted to look after him; the clergyman had given him much kind advice, and many friendly warnings; and at length the old man found himself ready to depart.  He was now, in fact, only waiting to say good-bye to the matron before turning his back for ever on the bare room where he had spent so many monotonous hours.

The prospect ought surely to have elated him, yet his face wore a very blank expression as he sat awaiting the expected summons; his new clothes felt strange and stiff, the high collar of his fine white shirt hurt his neck, his shiny new boots pinched his feet, the knobby handle of his massive umbrella was not so comfortable to grasp as the familiar crook of his battered old stick.