“Silas,” said John, “empty a dose of the medecyne in a cup for me.”

“There’s little comfort in medecyne,” Silas observed.  “Not much use is the stuff if the Lord is calling you home.  Calling you home.  Shall I read you a piece from the Beybile of the Welsh?  It is a great pity you have forgot the language of your mother.”

“I did not hear you,” said John.  “Don’t you trouble to say it over.”  He drank the medicine.  “Unfortunate was the row about the Mermaid Agency.  I was sorry to take it away from you, but if I hadn’t some one else would.  We kept it in the family, Silas.”

“I have prayed a lot,” said Silas to his brother, “that me and you are brought together before the day of the death.  Nothing can break us from being brothers.”

“You are very doleful.  I shall shift this little cold.”

“Yes-yes, you will.  I would be glad to follow your coffin to Wales and look into the guard’s van at stations where the train stop, but the fare is big and the shop is without a assistant.  Weep until I am sore all over I shall in Capel Shirland Road.  When did the doctor give you up?”

“He’s a donkey.  He doesn’t know nothing.  Here he is once per day and charging for it.  And he only brings his repairs to me.”

“The largest charge will be to take you to your blessed home,” said Silas.  “The railway need a lot of money for to carry a corpse.  I feel quite sorrowful.  In Heaven you’ll remember that I was at your deathbed.”

John did not answer.

“Well-well,” said Silas, whispering loudly, “making his peace with the Big Man he is”; and he went away, moaning a funereal hymn tune.

John thought over his plight and was distressed, and he spoke to God in Welsh:  “Not fitting that you leave the daughter fach alone.  Short in her leg you made her.  There’s a set-back.  Her mother perished; and did I complain?  An orphan will the pitiful wench be.  Who will care for the shop?  And the repairing workman?  Steal the leather he will.  A fuss will be about shop Richmond.  Paid have I the rent for one year in advance.  Serious will the loss be.  Be not of two thinks.  Send Lisha to breathe breathings into my inside—­in the belly where the heart is.  Forgive me that I go to the Capel English.  Go there I do for the trade.  Generous am I in the collections.  Ask the preacher.  Take some one else to sit in my chair in the Palace.  Amen.  Amen and amen.”  In his misery he sobbed, and he would not speak to Ann nor heed her questionings.  At the cold of dawn he thought that Death was creeping down to him, and he screamed:  “Allow me to live for a year—­two years—­and a grand communion set will I give to the Welsh capel in Shirland Road.  Individual cups.  Silver-plated, Sheffield make.  Ann shall send quickly for the price-list.”

His fear was such that he would not suffer his beard to be combed, nor have his face covered by a bedsheet; and he would not stretch himself or turn his face upwards:  in such a manner dead men lie.