hen is it going to be?"

"At once," said John, calmly.

"You are the most sensible man I have seen for a long time," said Lady
Tintern.

* * * * *

Peter and Sarah hardly exchanged a word during their return journey
from the moors after the unlucky picnic; and at the door of Happy
Jack's cottage in Youlestone village she commanded her obedient swain
to deposit the luncheon basket, and bade him farewell.

The aged road-mender, to his intense surprise and chagrin, had one
morning found himself unable to rise from his bed. He lay there for a
week, indignant with Providence for thus wasting his time.

"There bain't nart the matter wi' I! Then why be I a-farced to lie
thic way?" he said faintly. "If zo be I wor bod, I cude understand,
but I bain't bod. There bain't no pain tu speak on no-wheres. It vair
beats my yunderstanding."

"Tis old age be the matter wi' yu, vather," said his mate, a young
fellow of sixty or so, who lodged with him.

"I bain't nigh so yold as zum," said Happy Jack, peevishly. "Tis a
nice way vor a man tu be tuke, wi'out a thing the matter wi' un, vor
the doctor tu lay yold on."

Dr. Blundell soothed him by giving his illness a name.

"It's Anno Domini, Jack."

"What be that? I niver yeard till on't befar," he said suspiciously.

"It's incurable, Jack," said the doctor, gravely.

Happy Jack was consoled. He rolled out the word with relish to his
next visitor.

"Him's vound it out at last. 'Tis the anny-dominy, and 'tis incurable.
You'm can't du nart vor I. I got tu go; and 'taint no wonder, wi' zuch
a complaint as I du lie here wi'. The doctor were vair beat at vust;
but him worried it out wi' hisself tu the last. Him's a turble gude
doctor, var arl he wuden't go tu the war."

Sarah visited him every day. He was so frail and withered a little
object that it seemed as though he could waste no further, and yet he
dwindled daily. But he suffered no pain, and his wits were bright to
the end.

This evening the faint whistle of his voice was fainter than ever, and
she had to bend very low to catch his gasping words. He lay propped up
on the pillows, with a red scarf tied round the withered scrag of his
throat, and his spotless bed freshly arrayed by his mate's mother, who
lived with them and "did for" both.

"They du zay as Master Peter be _carting_ of 'ee, Miss Zairy," he
whispered. "Be it tru?"

"Yes, Jack dear, it's true. Are you glad?"

"I be glad i