For the moment I was too surprised to speak, and the kind old man led me into the passage, seeing how pale and faint I was. He belonged, like his master, and a great part of their business, to a simple religious persuasion, or faith, which now is very seldom heard of. “It was just in this way,” he said, as soon as tears had enabled me to speak--for even at the first sight I had felt affection toward my new guardian. “Our master is a very punctual man, for five-and-thirty years never late--never late once till this morning. Excuse me, miss, I ought to be ashamed. The Lord knoweth what is best for us. Well, you threw him out a good bit yesterday, and there was other troubles. And he had to work late last night, I hear; for through his work he would go, be it anyhow--diligent in business, husbanding the time--and when he came down to breakfast this morning, he prayed with his household as usual, but they noticed his voice rather weak and queer; and the mistress looked at him when he got up from his knees; but he drank his cup of tea and he ate his bit of toast, which was all he ever took for breakfast. But presently when his cob came up to the door--for he always rode in to business, miss, no matter what the weather was--he went to kiss his wife and his daughters all round, according to their ages; and he got through them all, when away he fell down, with the riding-whip in one hand, and expired on a piece of Indian matting.” “How terrible!” I exclaimed, with a sob. And the poor old man, in spite of all his piety, was sobbing. “No, miss; not a bit of terror about it, to a man prepared as he was. He had had some warning just a year ago; and the doctors all told him he must leave off work. He could no more do without his proper work than he could without air or victuals. What this old established concern will do without him, our Divine Master only knows. And a pinch coming on in Threadneedle Street, I hear--but I scarcely know what I am saying, miss; I was thinking of the camel and the needle.” “I will not repeat what you have not meant to tell,” I answered, seeing his confusion, and the clumsy turn he had made of it. “Only tell me what dear Mr. Shovelin died of.” “Heart-disease, miss. You might know in a moment. Nothing kills like that. His poor father died of it, thirty years agone. And the better people are, the more they get it.” CHAPTER XXIX AT THE PUMP This blow was so sharp and heavy that I lost for the moment all power to go on. The sense of ill fortune fell upon me, as it falls upon stronger people, when a sudden gleam of hope, breaking through long troubles, mysteriously fades away.