“Look if you can find a basin or plate, Mr Stoddart, and put it to catch the drop here,” I said. For I wanted to give him the first chance of being useful. “There’s one in the press there,” said the old man, rising feebly. “Keep your seat,” said Mr Stoddart. “I’ll get it.” And he got a basin from the cupboard, and put it on the bed to catch the drop. The old woman held my hand in hers; but by its motion I knew that she wanted something; and guessing what it was from what she had said before, I made her husband sit on the bed on the other side of her and take hold of her other hand, while I took his place on the chair by the bedside. This seemed to content her. So I went and whispered to Mr Stoddart, who had stood looking on disconsolately:— “You heard me say I would visit some of my sick people this afternoon. Some will be expecting me with certainty. You must go instead of me, and tell them that I cannot come, because old Mrs Tomkins is dying; but I will see them soon.” He seemed rather relieved at the commission. I gave him the necessary directions to find the cottages, and he left me. I may mention here that this was the beginning of a relation between Mr Stoddart and the poor of the parish—a very slight one indeed, at first, for it consisted only in his knowing two or three of them, so as to ask after their health when he met them, and give them an occasional half-crown. But it led to better things before many years had passed. It seems scarcely more than yesterday—though it is twenty years ago—that I came upon him in the avenue, standing in dismay over the fragments of a jug of soup which he had dropped, to the detriment of his trousers as well as the loss of his soup. “What am I to do?” he said. “Poor Jones expects his soup to-day.”—“Why, go back and get some more.”—“But what will cook say?” The poor man was more afraid of the cook than he would have been of a squadron of cavalry. “Never mind the cook. Tell her you must have some more as soon as it can be got ready.” He stood uncertain for a moment. Then his face brightened. “I will tell her I want my luncheon. I always have soup. And I’ll get out through the greenhouse, and carry it to Jones.”—“Very well,” I said; “that will do capitally.” And I went on, without caring to disturb my satisfaction by determining whether the devotion of his own soup arose more from love to Jones, or fear of the cook. He was a great help to me in the latter part of his life, especially after I lost good Dr Duncan, and my beloved friend Old Rogers. He was just one of those men who make excellent front-rank men, but are quite unfit for officers. He could do what he was told without flinching, but he always required to be told. I resumed my seat by the bedside, where the old woman was again moaning. As soon as I took her hand she ceased, and so I sat till it began to grow dark. “Are you there, sir?” she would murmur. “Yes, I am here. I have a hold of your hand.” “I can’t feel you, sir.”