rains but it pours,'" said Widow Coomstock. She giggled again
and looked at Billy. She was very fat, and the red of her face deepened
to purple unevenly about the sides of her nose. Her eyes were bright and
black. She had opened a button or two at the top of her dress, and her
general appearance, from her grey hair to her slattern heels, was
disordered. Her cap had fallen off on to the ground, and Mr. Blee
noticed that her parting was as a broad turnpike road much tramped upon
by Time. The room smelt stuffy beyond its wont and reeked not only of
spirits but tobacco. This Billy sniffed inquiringly, and Mrs. Coomstock
observed the action. "'Twas Lezzard," she said. "I like to see a man in
comfort. You can smoke if you mind to. Coomstock always done it, and a
man's no man without, though a dirty habit wheer they doan't use a
spittoon."

She smiled, but to herself, and was lost in thought a moment. He saw her
eyes very bright and her head wagging. Then she looked at him and
laughed again.

"You'm a fine figure of a man, tu," she said, apropos of nothing in
particular. But the newcomer understood. He rumpled his hair and snorted
and frowned at the empty glasses.

"Have a drop?" suggested Mrs. Coomstock; but Billy, of opinion that his
love had already enjoyed refreshment sufficient for the time, refused
and answered her former remark.

"A fine figure?--yes, Mary Coomstock, though not so fine for a man as
you for a woman. Still, a warm-blooded chap an' younger than my years."

"I've got my share o' warm blood, tu, Billy."

It was apparent. Mrs. Coomstock's plump neck bulged in creases over the
dirty scrap of white linen that represented a collar, while her massive
bust seemed bursting through her apparel.

"Coourse," said Mr. Blee, "an' your share, an' more 'n your share o'
brains, tu. He had bad luck--Coomstock--the worse fortune as ever fell
to a Chaggyford man, I reckon."

"How do 'e come at that, then?"

"To get 'e, an' lose 'e again inside two year. That's ill luck if ever I
seen it. Death's a envious twoad. Two short year of you; an' then up
comes a tumour on his neck unbeknawnst, an' off he goes, like a spring
lamb."

"An' so he did. I waked from sleep an' bid un rise, but theer weern't no
more risin' for him till the Judgment."

"Death's no courtier. He'll let a day-labourer go so peaceful an'
butivul as a child full o' milk goes to sleep; while he'll take a gert
lord or dook, wi' lands an' moneys, an' st