“That,” said I, “from the shape of it, must be Joe Roscorla.”

And Joe Roscorla it was, only by no means the Joe Roscorla of ordinary life, but a galvanised and gesticulating Joe, whereas the Joe that we knew was of a lethargic bearing and slow habit of speech.  Still, it was he, and as he came up to us he stayed all questioning by gasping out the word “Missus!” and then falling into a violent fit of coughing.

“Well, what is amiss?” asked Tom.

“Took wi’ a seizure, an’ maister like a thing mazed,” blurted Joe, and then fell to panting and coughing worse than ever.

“What! a seizure? paralysis do you mean?” I asked, while Tom turned white.

“Just a seizure, and I ha’n’t got time for no longer name.  But run if ’ee want to see her alive.”

We ran without further speech, Joe keeping at our side for a minute, but soon dropping behind and fading into distance.  As we entered the door Uncle Loveday met us, and I saw by his face that Aunt Elizabeth was dead.

She had been in the kitchen busied with our supper, when she suddenly fell down and died in a few minutes.  Heart disease was the cause, but in our part people only die of three complaints—­a seizure, an inflammation, or a decline.  The difference between these is purely one of time, so that Joe Roscorla, learning the suddenness of the attack, judged it forthwith a case of “seizure,” and had so reported.

My poor aunt was dead; and until now we had never known how we loved her.  Like so many of the Trenoweths she seemed hard and reserved to many, but we who had lived with her had learnt the goodness of her soul and the sincerity of her religion.  The grief of her husband was her noblest epitaph.

He, poor man, was inconsolable.  Without his wife he seemed as one deprived of most of his limbs, and moved helplessly about, as though life were now without purpose.  Accustomed to be ruled by her at every turn, he missed her in every action of the day.  Very swiftly he sank, of no assigned complaint, and within six months was laid beside her.

On his death-bed my uncle seemed strangely troubled about us.  Tom was to be a doctor.  My destiny was not so certain; but already I had renounced in my heart an inglorious life in Lizard Town.  I longed to go with Tom; in London, too, I thought I should be free to follow the purpose of my life.  But the question was, how should I find the money?  For I knew that the sum obtained by the sale of Lantrig was miserably insufficient.  So I sat with idle hands and waited for destiny; nor did I realise my helplessness until I stood in the room where Uncle Loveday lay dying.

“Tom,” said my uncle, “Tom, come closer.”

Tom bent over the bed.

“I am leaving you two boys without friends in this world.  You have friends in Lizard Town, but Lizard Town is a small world, Tom.  I ought to have sent you to London before, but kept putting off the parting.  If one could only foresee—­could only foresee.”