But he was gazing before him, and went on:  “I often think how thankful I ought to be to die in peace, and have a quiet room to myself.  There was a girl in a consumption on the floor below me; and she used to sit and cough, while her father and mother quarrelled so that I could hear them through the floor.  I used to send her half of anything nice I had, but I found they took it.  I did wish then,” he added, with a sudden flush, “that I had been a strong man!”

“How shocking!” I said.

“Yes,” he answered; “it was that first set me thinking how many mercies I had.  And then there came such a good parson to St. John’s, and he taught me many things; and then I knew your father; and the neighbours have been very kind.  And while I could work I got good wage, and laid by a bit; and I’ve sold a few things, and there’ll be these to sell when I’m gone; and so I’ve got what will keep me while I do live, and pay for my coffin.  What can a man want more?”

What, indeed!  Unsatisfied heart, make answer!

A fit of coughing that shook the crazy room interrupted him here.  When he had recovered himself, he turned to my father.

“Ay, ay, I have many mercies, as you know, Sir.  Who would have thought I could have kept a bit of green like that plant of mine in a place like this?  But, you see, they pulled down those old houses opposite just before I got it, and now the sun couldn’t come into a king’s room better than it comes into mine.  I was always afraid, year after year, that they would build it up, and my bit of green would die; and they are building now, but it will last my time.  Indeed, indeed, I’ve had much to be thankful for.  Not,” he added, in a low, reverential tone, “not to mention greater blessings.  The presence of the LORD! the presence of the LORD!”

I was awed, almost frightened, by the tone in which he spoke, and by the look of his face, on which the shadow of death was falling fast.  He lay in a sort of stupor, gazing with his black eyes at the broken roof, as if through it he saw something invisible to us.

It was some time before he seemed to recollect that we were there, and before I ventured to ask him.  “Where did you get your plant?”

He smiled.  “That’s a long story, master; but it was this way.  You see, my father died quite young in a decline, and left my mother to struggle on with eight of us as she could.  She buried six, one after another; and then she died herself, and brother Ben and I were left alone.  But we were mighty fond of one another, and got on very well.  I got plenty of employment, weaving mats and baskets for a shop in the town, and Ben worked at the factory.  One Saturday night he came home all in a state, and said there was going to be a cheap trip on the Monday into the country.  It was the first there had been from these parts, though there have been many since, I believe.  Neither he nor I had ever been out of the town, and he was full of it that we must go.