“Grandfather dear, be quiet,” he replied; “God will direct all things for the best.  Don’t cry,” he added, for the old man was crying like an infant; “don’t cry, but be quiet, and everything will be well in time.  It’s a great trial, I know; but any change is better than to remain here till we come, like so many others, to beggary.  God will support us, father.”

The old man wiped his eyes, and seemed as if he had taken comfort from the words of his son; whereas, the fact was, that his mind had altogether passed from the subject; but not without that unconscious feeling of pain which frequently remains after the recollection of that which has occasioned it has passed away.

It was evident, from the manner of the old man, that the knowledge of their intended emigration had alarmed into action all the dormant instincts of his nature; but this was clearly more than they were competent to sustain for any length of time.  Neither the tottering frame, nor the feeble mind was strong enough to meet the shock which came so unexpectedly upon them.  The consequence may be easily anticipated.  On the following day he was able to be up only for an hour; yet he was not sick, nor did he complain of any particular pain.  His only malady appeared to consist in that last and general prostration of bodily and intellectual strength, by which persons of extreme old age, who have enjoyed uninterrupted health, are affected at, or immediately preceding their dissolution.  His mind, however, though wandering and unsteady, was vigorous in such manifestations as it made.  For instance, it seemed to be impressed by a twofold influence,—­the memory of his early life,—­mingled with a vague perception of present anxiety, the cause of which he occasionally was able to remember, but as often tried to recollect in vain.

On the second day after his discovery he was unable to rise at all; but, as before, he complained of nothing, neither were his spirits depressed.  On the contrary they were rather agitated—­sometimes into cheerfulness, but more frequently into an expression of sorrow and lamentation, which were, however, blended with old by-gone memories that were peculiarly reflecting to those who heard them.  In this way he went on, sinking gradually until the day previous to the auction.  On that morning, to their surprise, he appeared to have absolutely regained new strength, and to have been gifted with something like renovated power of speech.

“I want to get up,” said he, “and it’s only Tom an’ Dora that I’ll allow to help me.  You’re all good, an’ wor always good to grandfather, but Tom was my best son, and signs on it—­everything thruv wid him, an’ God will prosper an’ bless him.  Where’s Dora?”

“Here, grandfather.”

“Ay, that’s the voice above all o’ them that went like music to my heart; but well I know, and always did, who you have that voice from; ay, an’ I know whose eyes—­an’ it’s them that’s the lovely eyes—­Dora has.  Isn’t the day fine, Dora?”