p
as an example to the labouring classes of his countrymen, and he was
pointed at as one who had lived and died happy--ever happy, said the
biographer, because ever industrious. And so a great moral question
was inculcated. A short paragraph was devoted to his appearance in
Parliament; and unfortunate Mr Romer was again held up for disgrace,
for the thirtieth time, as having been the means of depriving
our legislative councils of the great assistance of Sir Roger's
experience.

"Sir Roger," said the biographer in his concluding passage, "was
possessed of an iron frame; but even iron will yield to the repeated
blows of the hammer. In the latter years of his life he was known to
overtask himself; and at length the body gave way, though the mind
remained firm to the _last_. The subject of this memoir was only
fifty-nine when he was taken from us."

And thus Sir Roger's life was written, while the tears were
yet falling on his pillow at Boxall Hill. It was a pity that a
proof-sheet could not have been sent to him. No man was vainer of
his reputation, and it would have greatly gratified him to know that
posterity was about to speak of him in such terms--to speak of him
with a voice that would be audible for twenty-four hours.

Sir Roger made no further attempt to give counsel to his son. It was
too evidently useless. The old dying lion felt that the lion's power
had already passed from him, and that he was helpless in the hands
of the young cub who was so soon to inherit the wealth of the forest.
But Dr Thorne was more kind to him. He had something yet to say as to
his worldly hopes and worldly cares; and his old friend did not turn
a deaf ear to him.

It was during the night that Sir Roger was most anxious to talk, and
most capable of talking. He would lie through the day in a state
half-comatose; but towards evening he would rouse himself, and by
midnight he would be full of fitful energy. One night, as he lay
wakeful and full of thought, he thus poured forth his whole heart to
Dr Thorne.

"Thorne," said he, "I told you about my will, you know."

"Yes," said the other; "and I have blamed myself greatly that I have
not again urged you to alter it. Your illness came too suddenly,
Scatcherd; and then I was averse to speak of it."

"Why should I alter it? It is a good will; as good as I can make. Not
but that I have altered it since I spoke to you. I did it that day
after you left me."

"Have you definitely named y