He had brought his Saturday wage with him, and we would work hard afterwards.  Well, you see, the landlord had been that day, and had said he must have the rent by Tuesday, or he’d turn us out.  I’d got some of it laid by, and was looking to Ben’s wages to make it up.  But I couldn’t bear to see his face pining for a bit of fresh air, and so I thought I could stay at home and work on Monday for what would make up the rent, and he need never know.  So I pretended that I didn’t want to go, and couldn’t be bothered with the fuss; and at last I set him off on Monday without me.  It was late at night when he came back like one wild.  He’d got flowers in his hat, and flowers in all his button-holes; he’d got his handkerchief filled with hay, and was carrying something under his coat.  He began laughing and crying, and ‘Eh, Bill!’ he said, ’thou hast been a fool.  Thou hast missed summat.  But I’ve brought thee a bit of green, lad, I’ve brought thee a bit of green.’  And then he lifted up his coat, and there was the plant, which some woman had given him.  We didn’t sleep much that night.  He spread the hay over the bed, for me to lay my face on, and see how the fields smelt, and then he began and told me all about it; and after that, when I was tired with work, or on a Sunday afternoon, I used to say, ‘Now, Ben, tell us a bit about the country.’  And he liked nothing better.  He used to say that I should go, if he carried me on his back; but the LORD did not see fit.  He took cold at work, and went off three months afterwards.  It was singular, the morning he died he called me to him, and said, ’Bill, I’ve been a dreaming about that trip that thou didst want to go after all.  I dreamt—­’ and then he stopped, and said no more; but, after a bit, he opened his eyes wide, and pulled me to him, and he said, ’Bill, my lad, there’s such flowers in heaven, such flowers!’ And so the LORD took him.  But I kept the bit of green for his sake.”

Here followed another fit of coughing, which brought my father from the end of the bed to forbid his talking any more.

“I have got to see another patient in the yard,” he said, “and I will leave my son here.  He shall read you a chapter or two till I come back; he is a good reader for his age.”

And so my father went.  I was, as he said, a good reader for my age; but I felt very nervous when the sick man drew a Bible from his side, and put it in my hands.  I wondered what I should read; but it was soon settled by his asking for certain Psalms, which I read as clearly and distinctly as I could.  At first I was rather disturbed by his occasional remarks, and a few murmured Amens; but I soon got used to it.  He joined devoutly in the “Glory be to the Father”—­with which I concluded—­and then asked for a chapter from the Revelation of St. John.  I was more at ease now, and read my best, with a happy sense of being useful; whilst he lay in the sunshine, folding the sheet with his bony fingers, with his eyes fixed on the beloved “bit of green,” and drinking in the Words of Life with dying ears.