mums, and weak-eyed Michaelmas daisies, and spectre stalks of holly-hock. It belonged to a low, dark house, which crouched behind a screen of yews. We waked along to the front. The blinds were down, and in one room we could see the stale light of candles burning.
“Is this Yew Cottage?” asked my mother of a curious lad.
“It’s Mrs. May’s,” replied the boy.
“Does she live alone?” I asked.
“She ’ad French Carlin—but he’s dead—an she’s letten th’ candles ter keep th’ owd lad off’n ’im.”
We went to the house and knocked.
“An ye come about him?” hoarsely whispered a bent old woman, looking up with very blue eyes, nodding her old head with its velvet net significantly towards the inner room.
“Yes” said my mother, “we had a letter.”
“Ay, poor fellow—he’s gone, missis,” and the old lady shook her head. Then she looked at us curiously, leaned forward, and, putting her withered old hand on my mother’s arm, her hand with its dark blue veins, she whispered in confidence, “and the candles ’as gone out twice. ’E wor a funny feller, very funny!”
“I must come in and settle things—I am his nearest relative,” said my mother, trembling.
“Yes—I must ’a dozed, for when I looked up, it wor black darkness. Missis, I dursn’t sit up wi’ ’im no more, an’ many a one I’ve laid out. Eh, but his sufferin’s. Missis—poor feller—eh, Missis!”—she lifted her ancient hands, and looked up at my mother, with her eyes so intensely blue.
