Next day, as I came in hatted and cloaked to say “good-bye,” old Brockwell--bright and ruddy--had his cutting board on his knees, bits of calico all over him. A foot-rule, a blue pencil, and several envelopes before him, and the air of “this is my busy day” of a railroad magnate at least. His “log-cabin” pattern had been found in a “rocky-mountain” envelope, and in fact things were all at loggerheads--but by-and-by they would be ship-shape. I was just to wait till I saw some of his _own_ designs! Emily was going to go right _at_ one--of “anchors”--blue anchors on a white ground, and did I suppose any of my pieces would be long enough--he couldn’t well have those anchors less than six or seven inches long, and then a bit of the old Adam came out in him, when he lowered his voice to tell me: “_He_ was not ashamed to cut patch-work, and he was not afraid--that in a year from now there would be quilts _downstairs_ that could outsail anything upstairs that had been cut out only after beggin’ and coaxin’!” I looked at the mighty wreck before me! I thought of the three men he had put out in that early morning fight! Of how, strained and patched and stitched, he had picked up that barrel of flour and carried it in from very pride in his strength! How he had won cheers for his splendid lifting-power at that fire, and now he had come to _this_! He sat there helpless as a child, his only work cutting up scraps of calico for quilts. He was, as he himself said, “an old hulk!” and yet he looked brightly up to me and said: “You remember old lady Brighton, don’t you, lass? Unbeliever, poor old thing! Emily and I are going to make a real pretty ‘star quilt’ and give to her. Star-pattern works up such small pieces, you know! Nothing, most, too small for that, and so bright too!” It was no use denying it--this wreck _was_ dearer--was more valuable to others, _as_ a wreck, than it had been in full panoply and strength. He was accepting things--he was conquering himself, and he was “greater than he who taketh a city!” So there I left him. For background, he had his honest, toilsome, clean-thinking past! His old wife’s faithful love was as the blue sky, bowing gently over him. The slow, still sands of Time piling steadily about him, and before him that great, illimitable ocean of Eternity, which will at last receive into its bosom this fine, old hulk! The Gentleman Who Was Going to Die The Gentleman Who Was Going to Die Of course he had a name, and we both knew it, yet we invariably spoke of him not as Clarks nor as Mr. Clarks, but as “the gentleman who was going to die.” We must have been a troublesome pair of “little pitchers” to have about, with our widely open ears, in such a place and at such a time; and I remember quite well that our elders were much annoyed when they found that we knew that “the gentleman was going to die.”