Here the nurse interfered, and the autocrat, having succeeded in rousing the patient rather more effectually than the authorities either anticipated or desired, was led away. Half an hour later the nurse approached his bedside. "Here’s your beef-tea, Mr. Williams!" she almost shouted; "you must try and take it." "Who be you a-hollerin’ at?" growled the patient. "I’ll take the messy stuff without so much noise about it." "I don’t believe the old image is half so deaf as he makes out," whispered the nurse to the matron, feeling rather nettled at this unexpected retort. The old image kept muttering to himself all that day, and those who listened heard remarks to the effect that there was no rest to be expected this side of the grave, that he simply couldn’t lie there and think of his garden going to "wrack and rewing, all along of a slippety varmint of a tarrier. Just let me catch him a-scrattin’ in my borders, and I’ll give ’im what for." The ultimate result of these mutterings being that, in another week, Williams was discharged as convalescent, and by Christmas was well enough to dictate to his mistress as to what greenery she might cut for the decoration of the house. "Ladies, they did cum," said he to his wife, "and did read in that there ’orspital, but they did spake so secret-like and quiet, I couldn’t never yer what it were all about; and the doctor ’e cum, and passun ’e cum, but I didn’t seem to take no sort of delight in none of ’em. Then Mazter Billy ’e cum, and did talk the most sensiblest of the lot.... And, in spite of that there influinzy, yer Oi be!" *III* *"ESPECIALLY THOSE"* They did not know that Billy had so many friends until he lay a-dying. Then they knew. It takes some of us more than four years to make one friend. Billy had only lived four years altogether, but every one he knew was his friend, and he knew every one in his little world. "I want some ice for Master Billy’s head!" said the parlour-maid. "He’s that feverish, doctor says it’s to be kept on all the time." Mr. Stallon, the fishmonger, looked grave. "I haven’t a bit of ice on the premises. It’s ordered, but it won’t be here till to-morrow. Dear! dear! and to think as the little gentleman’s so bad!" Mr. Stallon was a stout, seafaring-looking man, with a short brown beard. He shook his head, and looked really sorry. "Whatever shall we do?" cried the parlour-maid. "Whatever shall we do?" "Do!" echoed Mr. Stallon. "Do! why, get some, to be sure. I’ll go to Farenam for it myself. Tell your lady she shall have it in a’ hour or so."