He seemed rather relieved at the commission.  I gave him the necessary directions to find the cottages, and he left me.

I may mention here that this was the beginning of a relation between Mr Stoddart and the poor of the parish—­a very slight one indeed, at first, for it consisted only in his knowing two or three of them, so as to ask after their health when he met them, and give them an occasional half-crown.  But it led to better things before many years had passed.  It seems scarcely more than yesterday—­though it is twenty years ago—­that I came upon him in the avenue, standing in dismay over the fragments of a jug of soup which he had dropped, to the detriment of his trousers as well as the loss of his soup.  “What am I to do?” he said.  “Poor Jones expects his soup to-day.”—­“Why, go back and get some more.”—­“But what will cook say?” The poor man was more afraid of the cook than he would have been of a squadron of cavalry.  “Never mind the cook.  Tell her you must have some more as soon as it can be got ready.”  He stood uncertain for a moment.  Then his face brightened.  “I will tell her I want my luncheon.  I always have soup.  And I’ll get out through the greenhouse, and carry it to Jones.”—­“Very well,” I said; “that will do capitally.”  And I went on, without caring to disturb my satisfaction by determining whether the devotion of his own soup arose more from love to Jones, or fear of the cook.  He was a great help to me in the latter part of his life, especially after I lost good Dr Duncan, and my beloved friend Old Rogers.  He was just one of those men who make excellent front-rank men, but are quite unfit for officers.  He could do what he was told without flinching, but he always required to be told.

I resumed my seat by the bedside, where the old woman was again moaning.  As soon as I took her hand she ceased, and so I sat till it began to grow dark.

“Are you there, sir?” she would murmur.

“Yes, I am here.  I have a hold of your hand.”

“I can’t feel you, sir.”

“But you can hear me.  And you can hear God’s voice in your heart.  I am here, though you can’t feel me.  And God is here, though you can’t see Him.”

She would be silent for a while, and then murmur again—­

“Are you there, Tomkins?”

“Yes, my woman, I’m here,” answered the old man to one of these questions; “but I wish I was there instead, wheresomever it be as you’re goin’, old girl.”

And all that I could hear of her answer was, “Bym by; bym by.”

Why should I linger over the death-bed of an illiterate woman, old and plain, dying away by inches?  Is it only that she died with a hold of my hand, and that therefore I am interested in the story?  I trust not.  I was interested in her.  Why?  Would my readers be more interested if I told them of the death of a young lovely creature, who said touching things, and died amidst a circle of friends, who felt that the very light of life was