‘They’ve asked me to take the post,’ Mark answered.

‘What’s the wages?’ the older man asked, with exasperated sarcasm.

‘Nothing.’

‘Mark, lad,’ the other said, softening, ’I’m worth seven hundred pounds and this freehold house.  What dost think o’ that?’

Even in that moment, with the world and its riches slipping away from his dying grasp, the contemplation of this great achievement of thrift filled Edward Beechinor with a sublime satisfaction.  That sum of seven hundred pounds, which many men would dissipate in a single night, and forget the next morning that they had done so, seemed vast and almost incredible to him.

‘I know you’ve always been very careful,’ said Mark politely.

’Give up this old Labour Church’—­again old Beechinor laid a withering emphasis on the phrase—­’give up this Labour Church, and its all thine—­house and all.’

Mark shook his head.

‘Think twice,’ the sick man ordered angrily.  ’I tell thee thou’rt standing to lose every shilling.’

‘I must manage without it, then.’

A silence fell.

Each brother was absolutely immovable in his decision, and the other knew it.  Edward might have said:  ’I am a dying man:  give up this thing to oblige me.’  And Mark could have pleaded:  ’At such a moment I would do anything to oblige you—­except this, and this I really can’t do.  Forgive me.’  Such amenities would possibly have eased the cord which was about to snap; but the idea of regarding Edward’s condition as a factor in the case did not suggest itself favourably to the grim Beechinor stock, so stern, harsh, and rude.  The sick man wiped from his sunken features the sweat which continually gathered there.  Then he turned upon his side with a grunt.

‘Thou must fetch th’ lawyer,’ he said at length, ’for I’ll cut thee off.’

It was a strange request—­like ordering a condemned man to go out and search for his executioner; but Mark answered with perfect naturalness: 

‘Yes.  Mr. Ford, I suppose?’

‘Ford?  No!  Dost think I want him meddling i’ my affairs?  Go to young Baines up th’ road.  Tell him to come at once.  He’s sure to be at home, as it’s Saturday night.’

‘Very well.’

Mark turned to leave the room.

’And, young un, I’ve done with thee.  Never pass my door again till thou know’st I’m i’ my coffin.  Understand?’

Mark hesitated a moment, and then went out, quietly closing the door.  No sooner had he done so than the girl, hitherto so passive at the window, flew after him.