s not worth it. Tell me if I can help you
and how. You'll be up and about again soon, I hope."

"Never. Not me. Doctor Parsons be to blame. I hate that man. He knawed
it was weakness of heart that called for drink after Coonistock died;
an' he let me go on an' on--just to gain his own dark ends. You'll see,
you'll see. But that reminds me. Of all my relations you an' your
mother's all I care for; because you'm of my awn blood an' you've let me
bide, an' haven't been allus watchin' an' waitin' an' divin' me to the
bottle. An' the man I was fule enough to take in his dotage be worst of
all."

"Forget about these things. Anger's bad for you."

"Forget! Well, so I will forget, when I ve told 'e. I had the young man
what does my business, since old Ford died, awver here last week, an'
what there is will be yourn--every stiver yourn. Not the business, of
course; that was sold when Coonistock died; but what I could leave I
have. You expected nothin,' an' by God! you shall have all!"

She saw his face and hastened to lessen the force of the announcement in
some degree.

"Ban't much, mind, far less than you might think for--far less. Theer's
things I was driven to do--a lone woman wi'out a soul to care. An' wan
was--but you'll hear in gude time, you'll hear. It concerns Doctor
Parsons."

"I can't believe my senses. If you only knew what happened to me this
morning. And if you only knew what absolute paupers we are--mother and
I. Not that I would confess it to any living soul but you. And how can I
thank you? Words are such vain things."

"Ban't no call to thank me. 'Tis more from hatred of t' others than love
of you, when all's said. An' it ban't no gert gold mine. But I'd like to
be laid along wi' Coomstock; an' doan't, for God's love, bury Lezzard
wi' me; an' I want them words on auld George Mundy's graave set 'pon
mine--not just writ, but cut in a slate or some such lasting thing. 'Tis
a tidy tomb he've got, wi' a cherub angel, an' I'd like the same. You'll
find a copy o' the words in the desk there. My maid took it down last
Sunday. I minded the general meaning, but couldn't call home the rhymes.
Read it out, will 'e?"

Clement opened the desk, and found and read the paper. It contained a
verse not uncommon upon the tombstones of the last rural generation in
Devon:

"Ye standers-by, the thread is spun;
All pomp and pride I e'er did shun;
Rich and poor alike must die;
Peasants and kings in dust must