never did we get anything in return but emptiness and silence.  He’d listen to his father telling, and my John, being a hopeful man, never failed to hint that a few shillings would help us over a difficult week and so on; but Rupert only listened.  My John, you see, was one of they unfortunates stricken with the rheumatism that turns you into a living stone, so his usefulness was pretty undergone afore he reached sixty and but for my little bit, saved in service, and an occasional food-offering from my daughter’s husband, it would have gone hard with us.  This my eldest son well understood and often the tears would come into his eyes because he couldn’t do nothing; but no tear ever came into Rupert’s eyes.  Once I saw him stuff his father’s pipe out of his own tobacco pouch and only once; and we thought upon that amazing thing for a month after and wondered how it happened.

Well, that’s how it stood when the Almighty released my husband and in a manner of speaking me also.  He had been comforted by good friends during his long illness and not only our eldest son, John, would often make time to sit by him and have a tell, but there was the Vicar also and his wife—­peaceful and cheerful people, that my poor sufferer was always glad to see.  And besides them Mr. Sweet often came in and passed the news, though owing to his high gift of caution he’d seldom tell you anything that wasn’t well known a month before.  And Arthur Parable was not seldom at the bedside, for he was among our oldest friends and tolerable cheerful along with John, because the sight of a sick person had a way to cheer him and make him so bright as a bee.  He’d be very interested to hear about my husband’s pangs and said it was wonderful what the human frame could endure without going under.  But a nice, thoughtful man who had seen pecks of trouble himself and could spare a sigh for others.  He’d often bring my husband a pinch of tobacco, or an old illustrated newspaper; and he liked to turn over the past, when his wife was alive and he’d many times been within a touch of taking his own life.

Arthur was a handsome fellow, and might well have wed again, but no desire in that direction overtook him, and when Dowager Lady Martin at Tudor Manor took sick and had two nurses, his daughter Minnie, gived over her work, which was lady’s maid to the old lady, and come home to look after her father.  I’d say to Mr. Parable sometimes that, at his age and with his personable appearance, he might try again in hope; but “No,” he said.  “I’ve had my little lot and there’s Minnie.  My girl would never neighbour with a step-mother and I don’t want no more sour looks and high words in my house.”

“Girl” he called her, but in truth Minnie Parable was five-and-thirty and far ways from being girlish in mind or body.  Old for her age and one of they flat, dreary-minded females with a voice like the wind in a winter hedge, eyes without no more light in ’em than a rabbit’s, and a moping, down-daunted manner that made the women shrug their shoulders and the men fly.  Not a word against her, and the fact she was lady’s maid for ten full years to the Dowager can be told to prove her virtues; but then again, the Dowager was a melancholy-minded old woman, along of family misfortunes, and no doubt Minnie’s gift for looking at the dark side suited that ancient piece, who always did likewise.