one to the south: it had no
more. It stood on the side of a heathy hill, which rose up steep
behind it, and bending round sheltered it from the north. A low wall
of loose stones enclosed a small garden, reclaimed from the hill,
where grew some greens and cabbages and potatoes, with a flower here
and there between. In summer it was pleasant enough, for the warm sun
makes any place pleasant. But in winter it must have been a cold
dreary place indeed. There was no other house within sight of it. A
little brook went cantering down the hill close to the end of the
cottage, singing merrily.

"It is a long way to the sea, but by its very nature the water will
find it at last," said my father, pointing to the stream as we crossed
it by the single stone that was its bridge.

He had to bend his head low to enter the cottage. An old woman, the
sick man's wife, rose from the side of the chimney to greet us. My
father asked how John was.

"Wearing away," was her answer. "But he'll be glad to see you."

We turned in the direction in which her eyes guided us. The first
thing I saw was a small withered-looking head, and the next a
withered-looking hand, large and bony. The old man lay in a bed closed
in with boards, so that very little light fell upon him; but his hair
glistened silvery through the gloom. My father drew a chair beside
him. John looked up, and seeing who it was, feebly held out his
hand. My father took it and stroked it, and said:

"Well, John, my man, you've had a hard life of it."

"No harder than I could bear," said John.

"It's a grand thing to be able to say that," said my father.

"Oh sir! for that matter, I would go through it all again, if it was
_his_ will, and willingly. I have no will but his, sir."

"Well, John, I wish we could all say the same. When a man comes to
that, the Lord lets him have what he wants. What do you want now,
John?"

"To depart and be with the Lord. It wouldn't be true, sir, to say that
I wasn't weary. It seems to me, if it's the Lord's will, I've had
enough of this life. Even if death be a long sleep, as some people
say, till the judgment, I think I would rather sleep, for I'm very
weary. Only there's the old woman there! I don't like leaving her."

"But you can trust God for her too, can't you?"

"It would be a poor thing if I couldn't, sir."

"Were you ever hungry, John--dreadfully hungry, I mean?"

"Never longer than I could bear," he answered. "When you think it's