aid, "there's noan so mich more to tell. There was summat i'
Abe that made me a bit flaid o' axin' him ower mony questions. He were
drissed like a plain vesselman, sure enif; but he talked as if he were a
far-learnt man, an' his own maister. I axed him how lang t' shifts
lasted i' heaven, an' he said: 'We work as lang as t' inner voice tells
us to.' You see 'twere allus t' inner voice, an' I couldn't hardlins mak
out what he meant by that.

"Then a thowt com into my heead, but I didn't fairly like to out wi' it,
for fear T' Man Aboon were somewheer about an' sud hear me. So I just
leaned ovver and whispered i' Abe's lug:

"'Doesta tak a day off nows an' thens an' run wi' t' hounds or t'
harriers?'

"Abe laughed as if he were fit to brust hissen, an' then, afore he'd
time to answer, iverything went as dark as a booit. I saw no more o'
Abe, nor o' t' lake, nor o' t' birk-trees; an' t' next time I oppened my
een there were a doctor chap stannin' ower me wi' a belly-pump in his
hand, an' I were liggin' on a bed as weak as a kitlin."

Job was silent for a while, after finishing his story and relighting his
pipe, and his silence gave me a chance of looking at him closely.
Physically he was none the worse for his adventure; mentally,
spiritually, he was a new man. The fear of death had gone from his eyes,
and in its place was the joy of life, together with a sure faith in the
triumph of personality when, to use his own coursing phrase, he had
slipped the leash. His vision of heaven was somewhat too material to
satisfy me, but there could be no doubt that it had brought to his
terror-swept soul the peace of mind which passeth all understanding.

After a while Job rose, knocked the ashes from his pipe, and took his
leave. I accompanied him to the door and watched him as he walked down
the street. There was something buoyant in his tread, and his gigantic
shoulders rolled from side to side like a seaman's on the quarter-deck.
Soon he started whistling, and I smiled as I caught the tune. It was one
of his chapel hymns, and there was a note of exultation in the closing
bars:

"O grave! where is thy victory?
O death! where is thy sting?"

My mind was full of Job's story all that day. I somehow refused to
believe that what he had related was mere imagination, and it was
evident that he could not have invented the story of the inner voice,
for this remained a mystery to him. The inner voice haunted me all the
time, and,