“Not that he’s not lived a good life; been to church and paid his rent and tithe reg’lar, been sober and industrious and good to his people; but I think, sir,” she said, “that there’s one kind of trembling and fearfulness that we can’t get over:  he keeps saying that he’s afraid to meet his God.  He won’t say as he’s got anything on his mind; and, truthfully, I don’t think he has.  But he can’t go easy, sir; and I think a sight of your face, if I may make so bold, would do him, maybe, a deal of good.”

“I shall be very glad to see him, if he cares to see me,” said Arthur.  “Has Mr. Spencer” (the clergyman) “been here?”

“Yes, sir,” said the woman; “but he don’t seem to do George no good.  He’s prayed with him—­the Church prayers out of his blue prayer-book; but, after that, all he could say was, ’you must prepare to meet your God; are you at peace with Him?  Remember the judgment;’ when I can’t help thinking that God would be much more pleased if George could forget it.  He can’t like to see us crawling to meet Him, and cryin’ for fear, like as Watch does if his master has beat him for stealin’.  But I dare not say so to him, sir—­we never know, and I have no right to set myself up over the parson’s head.”

I confess that I felt frightfully helpless as we followed her into the house.  There was a bright fire burning; a table spread in a troubled untidy manner, with some unfinished food, hardly tasted, upon it.

She said apologetically, “You see, sir, it’s hard work to keep things in order, with George lying ill like this.  I have to be always with him.”

“Of course,” said Arthur, gently.  “I know how hard it is to keep up heart at all; still it is worth trying:  we often do better than we expect.”

His sweet voice and sympathetic face made the poor woman almost break down; she pushed hastily on, and, saying something incoherently about leading the way, ushered us through a kitchen and up a short flight of stairs.  I would have given a great deal to have been allowed to stay behind.  But Arthur walked simply on behind the woman.

“I won’t tell him you’re here,” she said; “he’d say he wasn’t fit to see you.  But it won’t harm him; maybe it’ll even cheer him up a bit.”  She pushed the door open just above; I could distinguish the sound of hard breathing, with every now and then a kind of catch in the breath, and a moan; then we found ourselves inside the room.

The sick man was lying propped up on pillows, with a curious wistful and troubled look on his face, which altered very quickly as we came in.  Much of his suffering was nervous, so-called; and a distraction, any new impression which diverted his mind, was very helpful to him.

“George,” said the woman, “here is Mr. Hamilton and his friend come over from the Squire’s to see you.”

He gave a grateful murmur, and pointed to a chair.

“I am so sorry,” said Arthur, simply, “to see you in such suffering, Mr. Keighley.  We heard you were in trouble, so we thought we would ride over and see if we could do anything for you.”