the weaver at Sherragh Vane, and Tubman of Ginger
Hall, and John-Billy-Bob at Cornah Glen, and that hard bargainer, old
Kermode of Port-e-chee. You see, I remember them all, for I never
forget anything. Send for them, and be quick fetching them, or it'll
be waste of time for them to come."

"I'll do it, Mistress Fairbrother," mumbled the old parson through
his toothless gums, "for right is right, and justice justice."

"Chut!" said Mrs. Fairbrother.

But the parson's deaf ears did not hear. "And, ah!" he said, "the
things of this world seem worthless, do they not, when we catch a
glimpse into eternity?"

"Less cry and more wool," said Mrs. Fairbrother, dryly. "I wouldn't
trust but old as you are you'd look with more love on a guinea than
the Gospel calls for."

The people answered the parson's summons quickly enough, and came to
Lague next morning, the men in their rough beavers, the old women in
their long blue cloaks, and they followed the old parson into Mrs.
Fairbrother's room, whispering among themselves, some in a doleful
voice others in an eager one, some with a cringing air, and others
with an arrogant expression. The chamber was darkened by a heavy
curtain over the window, but they could see Mrs. Fairbrother propped
up by pillows, whereon her thin, pinched, faded face showed very
white. She had slept never a moment of the night; and through all the
agony of her body her mind had been busy with its reckonings. These
she had made Greeba to set down in writing, and now with the paper on
the counterpane before her, and a linen bag of money in her hand, she
sat ready to receive her people. When they entered there was deep
silence for a moment, wherein her eyes glanced over them, as they
stood in their strong odors of health around her.

"Where's your brother, Liza Joughan?" she said to a young woman at
the foot of the bed.

"Gone off to 'Meriky ma'am," the girl faltered, "for he couldn't live
after he lost the land."

"Where's Quirk of Claughbane?" asked Mrs. Fairbrother, turning to the
parson.

"The poor man's gone, sister," said the parson, in a low tone. "He
died only the week before last."

Mrs. Fairbrother's face assumed a darker shade, and she handed the
paper to Greeba.

"Come, let's have it over," she said, and then, one by one, Greeba
read out the names.

"Daniel Kinvig, twelve pounds," Greeba read, and thereupon an elderly
man with a square head stepped forward.

"Kinvig," said Mrs. Fai