“It is; and I was just grieving in myself that he who is about to be laid there should have gone down to the grave in sorrow, after a life of usefulness and honour.” “You mean on account of the ill-doing of his son Hal?” “Yes, miss: and not only that, but of the change in the family altogether, and of the difference in their prospects from what his were at their time of life. I remember what a happy family they were fifteen years ago, when he owned his little farm here in the neighbourhood. His sons in the field and his daughters in the dairy were as fine a set of lads and lasses as could be seen. And now to think how some are dead and others dispersed, and the favourite of all likely to come on the parish through his own imprudence,—it does make one’s heart ache.” “And the poor old man himself,” said I, “was supported by the parish during his time of infirmity.” “Yes, miss; and that of itself would have brought him to the grave if his childishness had not saved him that pain. He deserved better from his favourite son than that he should marry before he could afford it, and turn over his old father to be maintained by the parish.” “Did you ever tell the young man so?” “Why, miss, I thought if his own natural affections and sense of duty were not enough to guide him, there was little use in my saying any thing. But this much I did tell him: that I had more pleasure in making my old mother comfortable with my pay than I could ever have had in indulging my own wishes; and that I am happier in my old age without wife or children than I could have been under the thought that she had died in the workhouse.” “And what did he say?” “He smiled and said I had never been in love; but——” the old man sighed and shook his head. “I am afraid,” said I, “Hal has not much comfort in his wife; for they seem to have gone down in the world sadly since they married.” “True, miss: and the old man knew this before he died; for he became sensible both of this and of his son Richard’s death. Richard, you know, miss, was a seaman, and was supposed to be at the other side of the world at this time; but a week ago, a letter came to say that he was dead; and it enclosed twelve pounds, which he had saved from his pay and left to his aged father. I told Williams all about it, and shewed him the letter and the money; but his memory so failed him, that he did not know who I was speaking of; and he forgot the whole the next minute. But O! miss, it all came back upon him at the last; and I shall ever bless God that I heard him speak rationally once more. He grew weaker every hour; and there he sat crying and wailing like a child, or talking so foolishly that one did not know how to answer him. But I have heard him speak like a man again, as sensibly as ever in his life, and with far more dignity than his son knew how to face.” “It is a great consolation,” said I, “when the mind which has been long clouded becomes clear at the last.”