poverty all her life, and now they’ll pitch her out of the way in a parish box. Do you remember what hopes I used to have when we was first married? See the end of ’em,—look at this underground hole,—look at this bed as she lays on! Is it my fault? By God, I wonder I haven’t killed myself before this! I’ve been drove mad, I tell you,—mad! It’s well if I don’t do murder yet; every man as I see go by with a good coat on his back and a face fat with good feeding, it’s all I can do to keep from catchin’ his throat an’ tearin’ the life out of him!”
“Let’s talk about the burial,” interposed Sidney. “Make your mind at ease. I’ve got enough to pay for all that, and you must let me lend you what you want.”
“Lend me money? You as I haven’t spoke to for years?”
“The more fault mine. I ought to have come back again long since; you wouldn’t have refused an old friend that never meant an unkindness to you.”
“No, it was me as was to blame,” said the
