“Yes, Sir, that is it,” said Neale. “I would return the hire I kept back,—(I can’t exactly say by fraud, for it was from hardness)—I would pay it all willingly now; but the men are dead. The fever has left but a few of them.” “I see,” said Mr. Kirby. “I see how it is. You think the fever is dogging your heels, because the cries of your labourers have entered into the ears of the Lord. You want to buy off the complaints of the dead, and the anger of God, by spending now on the living. You are afraid of dying; and you would rather part with your money, dearly as you love it, than die; and so you are planning to bribe God to let you live.” “Is not that rather hard, Sir?” “Hard?—Is it true? that is the question.” When they came to look closely into the matter, it was clear enough. Neale, driven from his accustomed methods and employments, and from his profits, and all his outward reliances, was adrift and panic-stricken. When the Good Lady was carried out of the hollow, the last security seemed gone, and the place appeared to be delivered over to God’s wrath; his share of which, his conscience showed him to be pointed out in the words of scripture which had so impressed his mind, and which were ringing in his ears, as he said, day and night. “As for the Good Lady,” said Mr. Kirby, “I am sure I hope she will never hear how some of the people here regard her, after all she has done for them. If anything could bow her spirit, it would be that.” Seeing Neale stare in surprise, he went on. “One would think she was a kind of witch or sorceress; that there was some sort of magic about her; instead of her being a sensible, kind-hearted, fearless woman, who knows how to nurse, and is not afraid to do it when it is most wanted.” “Don’t you think then, Sir, that God sent her to us?” “Certainly; as he sent the Doctor, and my wife and me: as he sends people to each other whenever they meet. I am sure you never heard the Good Lady say that she was specially sent.” “She is so humble,—so natural, Sir,—she was not likely to say such a thing.” “Very true: and she is too wise to think it. No—there is nothing to be frightened about in her going away. She could have done no good here, while unable to walk or sit up; and she will recover better where she is gone. If she recovers, as I expect she will, she will come and see us; and I shall think that as good luck as you can do; not because she carries luck about with her, but because there is nothing we so much want as her example of courage, and sense and cheerfulness.” “To be sure,” said Neale, in a meditative way, “she could not keep the people from dying.” “No indeed,” observed Mr. Kirby; “you and some others took care that she should not.” In reply to the man’s stare of amazement, Mr. Kirby asked:— “Are not you the proprietor of several of the cottages in Bleaburn?” “Yes: I have seven altogether.”