‘This way, Mr. Tryan, this way,’ said the old gentleman; ’I must take you to my pastur fust, an’ show you our cow—­the best milker i’ the county.  An’ see here at these backbuildins, how convenent the dairy is; I planned it ivery bit myself.  An’ here I’ve got my little carpenter’s shop an’ my blacksmith’s shop; I do no end o’ jobs here myself.  I niver could bear to be idle, Mr. Tryan; I must al’ys be at somethin’ or other.  It was time for me to lay by business an mek room for younger folks.  I’d got money enough, wi’ only one daughter to leave it to, an’ I says to myself, says I, it’s time to leave off moitherin’ myself wi’ this world so much, an’ give more time to thinkin’ of another.  But there’s a many hours atween getting up an’ lyin’ down, an’ thoughts are no cumber; you can move about wi’ a good many on ’em in your head.  See, here’s the pastur.’

A very pretty pasture it was, where the large-spotted short-horned cow quietly chewed the cud as she lay and looked sleepily at her admirers—­a daintily-trimmed hedge all round, dotted here and there with a mountain-ash or a cherry-tree.

’I’ve a good bit more land besides this, worth your while to look at, but mayhap it’s further nor you’d like to walk now.  Bless you!  I’ve welly an’ acre o’ potato-ground yonders; I’ve a good big family to supply, you know.’ (Here Mr. Jerome winked and smiled significantly.) ‘An’ that puts me i’ mind, Mr. Tryan, o’ summat I wanted to say to you.  Clergymen like you, I know, see a deal more poverty an’ that, than other folks, an’ hev a many claims on ’em more nor they can well meet; an’ if you’ll mek use o’ my purse any time, or let me know where I can be o’ any help, I’ll tek it very kind on you.’

’Thank you, Mr. Jerome, I will do so, I promise you.  I saw a sad case yesterday; a collier—­a fine broad-chested fellow about thirty—­was killed by the falling of a wall in the Paddiford colliery.  I was in one of the cottages near, when they brought him home on a door, and the shriek of the wife has been ringing in my ears ever since.  There are three little children.  Happily the woman has her loom, so she will be able to keep out of the workhouse; but she looks very delicate.’

‘Give me her name, Mr. Tryan,’ said Mr. Jerome, drawing out his pocket-book.  ‘I’ll call an’ see her.’

Deep was the fountain of pity in the good old man’s heart!  He often ate his dinner stintingly, oppressed by the thought that there were men, women, and children, with no dinner to sit down to, and would relieve his mind by going out in the afternoon to look for some need that he could supply, some honest struggle in which he could lend a helping hand.  That any living being should want, was his chief sorrow; that any rational being should waste, was the next.  Sally, indeed, having been scolded by master for a too lavish use of sticks in lighting the kitchen fire, and various instances of recklessness with regard to candle ends, considered him ‘as mean as aenythink;’ but he had as kindly a warmth as the morning sunlight, and, like the sunlight, his goodness shone on all that came in his way, from the saucy rosy-cheeked lad whom he delighted to make happy with a Christmas box, to the pallid sufferers up dim entries, languishing under the tardy death of want and misery.