accounts, and I could pour out to her all little worries, and now that Joey is married too, I don’t know what I should do if one or other of them did not come sometimes and take care of me.  My only comfort is that Charlotte will make her husband happy, and that he is as nearly worthy of her as a husband can well be.—­Believe me, Your affectionate father,

   “THEOBALD PONTIFEX.”

I may say in passing that though Theobald speaks of Charlotte’s marriage as though it were recent, it had really taken place some six years previously, she being then about thirty-eight years old, and her husband about seven years younger.

There was no doubt that Theobald passed peacefully away during his sleep.  Can a man who died thus be said to have died at all?  He has presented the phenomena of death to other people, but in respect of himself he has not only not died, but has not even thought that he was going to die.  This is not more than half dying, but then neither was his life more than half living.  He presented so many of the phenomena of living that I suppose on the whole it would be less trouble to think of him as having been alive than as never having been born at all, but this is only possible because association does not stick to the strict letter of its bond.

This, however, was not the general verdict concerning him, and the general verdict is often the truest.

Ernest was overwhelmed with expressions of condolence and respect for his father’s memory.  “He never,” said Dr Martin, the old doctor who brought Ernest into the world, “spoke an ill word against anyone.  He was not only liked, he was beloved by all who had anything to do with him.”

“A more perfectly just and righteously dealing man,” said the family solicitor, “I have never had anything to do with—­nor one more punctual in the discharge of every business obligation.”

“We shall miss him sadly,” the bishop wrote to Joey in the very warmest terms.  The poor were in consternation.  “The well’s never missed,” said one old woman, “till it’s dry,” and she only said what everyone else felt.  Ernest knew that the general regret was unaffected as for a loss which could not be easily repaired.  He felt that there were only three people in the world who joined insincerely in the tribute of applause, and these were the very three who could least show their want of sympathy.  I mean Joey, Charlotte, and himself.  He felt bitter against himself for being of a mind with either Joey or Charlotte upon any subject, and thankful that he must conceal his being so as far as possible, not because of anything his father had done to him—­these grievances were too old to be remembered now—­but because he would never allow him to feel towards him as he was always trying to feel.  As long as communication was confined to the merest commonplace all went well, but if these were departed from ever such a little he invariably felt that his father’s instincts