'Things ain't as they ort to be,' said the Cheap Jack sententiously. 'I've often turned the world over in my head and seed as the wrong side comes uppermost. Then I'm sure I was ordained to be a mimber o' parliament, but I never got a chance to rise to it. How I could ha' talked the electors over into believin' as black was white! How I could ha' made 'em a'most swallow anything and believe it was apricot jam! I could ha' told 'em lies enough to carry me to the top o' the poll by a thumping majority. It's lies does it, all the world over—leastways with the general public in England. It's lies sells damaged goods. It's lies as makes 'em turn their pockets out into your lap. It's lies as carries votes. It's lies as governs the land. The general public likes 'em. It loves 'em. They be as sweet and dear to the general public as thistles is to asses.' Then he lay quiet, except only that he turned his head from side to side, as though looking at something. 'What is it, dad?' 'I thinks as I sees 'em—miles and miles, going right away into nothing at all.' 'What, father?' 'The hawthorn hedges in full bloom, white as snow—it's our own tea plantation, Zit, you know—touched up wi' sweepins. When the flowers fall, then the leaves will come, and there'll be profits. Assam, Congou, Kaisow, Darjeeling, Souchong—just what you like—and, in truth, hawthorn leaves and sweepins—all alike. There's profits—profits comin' in the leaves, Zit.' A light sleet was falling, and it gleamed in the radiance of the lantern planted on the bank near the dying man's head. 'So you see, Zit,' he said, pointing into space, 'the thorn leaves be fallin',—scores o' thousands,—and the green leaves will come and bring profits.' 'What you see is snow that is coming down, father.' 'No, Zit. It's the thorns sheddin' their white flowers to grow profits. Fall, fall, fall away, white leaves.' He remained silent for a while, and then began to pluck at his daughter with the hand that clasped her waist. 'What is it, father?' 'I ain't easy.' 'Shall I lift your head higher?' ' 'Tain't that. It's in my mind, Zit.' 'What troubles you, dad?' 'That tin kettle wi' the hole in it. I've never stopped it. Put a bit o' cobbler's wax into the hole and some silverin' stuff over it, and you'll sell it quick off. Nobody won't find out till they comes to bile water in it.' 'I'll do that, father. Hush! I hear the horses coming.' 'I don't want to go wi' them. I hears singing.' 'It is the wind whistling.' 'No, Zit. It be the quiristers chanting in Ely. Do you hear their psalm?' 'No, we cannot hear them. They do not sing at night, and are also too distant.' 'But I does hear 'em singing beautiful, and this is the psalm they sing—"One pun' twelve—and hawthorn tea at four shillin'. There's profits."' He was sinking. He weighed heavy on her bosom. She stooped to his ear and whispered, 'Are you happy, father?'