ggested Grotait, smoothly, "you might
spend your last moments better in telling US what you would wish the
Trade to do for your wife, and the child if it lives."

"Well, I think ye might make the old gal an allowance till she marries
again."

"Oh, Ned! Ned!" cried the poor woman. "I'll have no man after thee." And
a violent burst of grief followed.

"Thou'll do like the rest," said the dying man. "Hold thy bellering, and
let me speak, that's got no time to lose. How much will ye allow her,
old lad?"

"Six shillings a week, Ned."

"And what is to come of young 'un?"

"We'll apprentice him."

"To my trade?"

"You know better than that, Ned. You are a freeman; but he won't be a
freeman's son by our law, thou knowst. But there's plenty of outside
trades in Hillsbro'. We'll bind him to one of those, and keep an eye on
him, for thy sake."

"Well, I must take what I can get."

"And little enough too," said Eliza Watney. "Now do you know that they
have set upon Mr. Little and beaten him within an inch of his life? Oh,
Ned, you can't approve that, and him our best friend."

"Who says I approve it, thou fool?"

"Then tell the gentleman who the villain was; for I believe you know."

"I'll tell 'em summut about it."

Grotait turned pale; but still kept his glittering eye fixed on the sick
man.

"The job was offered to me; but I wouldn't be in it. I know that much.
Says I, 'He has had his squeak.'"

"Who offered you the job?" asked Mr. Holdfast. And at this moment
Ransome came in.

"What, another black coat!" said Simmons. "----, if you are not like so
many crows over a dead horse." He then began to wander, and Holdfast's
question remained unanswered.

This aberration continued so long, and accompanied with such
interruptions of the breathing, that both Holdfast and Ransome despaired
of ever hearing another rational word from the man's lips.

They lingered on, however, and still Grotait sat at the foot of the bed,
with his glittering eye fixed on the dying man.

Presently Simmons became silent, and reflected.

"Who offered me the job to do Little?" said he, in a clear rational
voice.

"Yes," said Mr. Holdfast. "And who paid you to blow up the forge?"
Simmons made no reply. His fast fleeting powers appeared unable now to
hold an idea for above a second or two.

Yet, after another short interval, he seemed to go back a second time to
the subject as intelligibly as ever.

"Master Editor!" said he, with