entleman too; and
witnessed by his clerks, two decent young chaps, and civil enough, but
with too much watchchain for their situation. Jack March, my son, I have
left thee maester of Dovecot and all that I have. And there's a bit of
money in t' bed-head that'll help thee to make a fair start, and to bury
me decently atop of my father and mother. Ye may let Bill Sexton toll an
hour-bell for me, for I'm a old standard, if I never were good for much.
Maybe I might ha' done better if things had happened in a different
fashion; but the Lord knows all. I'd like a hymn at the grave, Jack, if
the Vicar has no objections, and do thou sing if thee can. Don't fret,
my son, thou'fet no cause. Twas that sweet voice o' thine took me back
again to public worship, and it's not t' least of all I owe thee, Jack
March. A poor reason lad, for taking up with a neglected duty--a poor
reason--but the Lord is a GOD of mercy, or there'd be small chance for
most on us. If Miss Jenny and her husband come to t' Vicarage this
summer, say I left her my duty and an old man's blessing; and if she
wants any roots out of t' garden, give 'em her, and give her yon old
chest that stands in the back chamber. It belonged to an uncle of my
mother's--a Derbyshire man. They say her husband's a rich gentleman, and
treats her very well. I reckon she may have what she's a mind, new and
polished, but she's always for old lumber. They're a whimsical lot,
gentle and simple. A talking of _women_, Jack, I've a word to say,
if I can fetch my breath to say it. Lad! as sure as you're maester of
Dovecot, you'll give it a missus. Now take heed to me. If ye fetch any
woman home here but Phoebe Shaw, I'll _walk_, and scare ye away
from t' old place. I'm willing for Phoebe, and I charge ye to tell the
lass so hereafter. And tell her it's not because she's fair--too many on
'em are that; and not because she's thrifty and houseproud--her mother's
that, and she's no favorite of mine; but because I've watched her
whenever t' ould cat 's let her be at home, and it's my belief that she
loves ye, knowing nought of _this_" (he laid his hand upon the
will), "and that she'll stick to ye, choose what her folks may say. Aye,
aye, she's not one of t' sort that quits a falling house--_like
rattens_."

Language fails to convey the bitterness which the old man put into these
last two words. It exhausted him, and his mind wandered. When he had to
some extent recovered himself he spoke again, b