Old Silas lay in a sort of closet, opening out of the family living-room.  The small window that gave it light looked right on to the ‘moor,’ as it was called; and by day the check curtain was drawn aside so that he might watch the progress of the labour.  Everything about the old man was clean, if coarse; and, with Death, the leveller, so close at hand, it was the labourer who made the first advances, and put out his horny hand to the squire.

’I thought you’d come, squire.  Your father came for to see my father as he lay a-dying.’

‘Come, come, my man!’ said the squire, easily affected, as he always was.  ’Don’t talk of dying, we shall soon have you out, never fear.  They’ve sent you up some soup from the Hall, as I bade ’em, haven’t they?’

’Ay, ay, I’ve had all as I could want for to eat and to drink.  The young squire and Master Roger was here yesterday.’

‘Yes, I know.’

’But I’m a deal nearer Heaven to-day, I am.  I should like you to look after the covers in the West Spinney, squire; them gorse, you know, where th’ old fox had her hole—­her as give ’em so many a run.  You’ll mind it, squire, though you was but a lad.  I could laugh to think on her tricks yet.’  And, with a weak attempt at a laugh, he got himself into a violent fit of coughing, which alarmed the squire, who thought he would never get his breath again.  His daughter-in-law came in at the sound, and told the squire that he had these coughing-bouts very frequently, and that she thought he would go off in one of them before long.  This opinion of hers was spoken simply out before the old man, who now lay gasping and exhausted upon his pillow.  Poor people acknowledge the inevitableness and the approach of death in a much more straightforward manner than is customary among more educated folk.  The squire was shocked at the hard-heartedness, as he considered it; but the old man himself had received much tender kindness in action from his daughter-in-law; and what she had just said was no more news to him than the fact that the sun would rise to-morrow.  He was more anxious to go on with his story.

’Them navvies—­I call ’em navvies because some on ’em is strangers, though some on ’em is th’ men as was turned off your own works, squire, when there came orders to stop ’em last fall—­they’re a-pulling up gorse and brush to light their fire for warming up their messes.  It’s a long way off to their homes, and they mostly dine here; and there’ll be nothing of a cover left, if you don’t see after ’em.  I thought I should like to tell ye afore I died.  Parson’s been here; but I did na tell him.  He’s all for the earl’s folk, and he’d not ha’ heeded.  It’s the earl as put him into his church, I reckon, for he said what a fine thing it were for to see so much employment a-given to the poor, and he never said nought o’ th’ sort when your works were agait, squire.’

This long speech had been interrupted by many a cough and gasp for breath; and having delivered himself of what was on his mind, he turned his face to the wall, and appeared to be going to sleep.  Presently he roused himself with a start.