"_I_ shouldn't like to make a fortune out of my neighbours' tears, and blood, and homes, and hearths," was the wrathful answer. "If Pyefinch Blair dies in his illness, will _Jerry's Gazette_ settle a pension from its riches on his widow and children? Answer me that, Mr. Gavity." Mr. Gavity, to judge by his looks, thought the question nearly as unreasonable as he thought the Squire. He wanted to tell of the vast benefit _Jerry's Gazette_ had proved in certain cases; but the Squire stopped his ears, saying Blair's case was enough for him. "I do not deny that the _Gazette_ may work mischief once in a way," acknowledged Mr. Gavity. "It is but a solitary instance, sir; and in all commercial improvements the few must suffer for the many." No good. The Squire went at him again, hammer and tongs, and at last dashed away without saying good morning, calling out to me to come on, and not stop a moment longer in a nest of thieves and casuists. Difford's Buildings had us in the afternoon. The baby was in its basket, little Joe lay asleep before the fire, the doll against his cheek, and Mary was kneeling by the bed in the back room. She got up hastily when she saw us. "I think he is weaker," she said in a whisper, as she came through the door and pushed it to. "There is a look on his face that I do not like." There was a look on hers. A wan, haggard, patiently hopeless look, that seemed to say she could struggle no longer. It was not natural; neither was the calm, lifeless tone. "Stay here a bit, my dear, and rest yourself," said the Squire to her. "I'll go in and sit with him." There could be no mistake now. Death was in every line of his face. His head was a little raised on the pillow; and the hollow eyes tried to smile a greeting. The Squire was good for a great deal, but not for making believe with that sight before him. He broke down with a great sob. "Don't grieve for me," murmured poor Blair. "Hard though it seems to leave her, I have learnt to say, 'God's will be done.' It is all for the best--oh, it is all for the best. We must through much tribulation enter into the Kingdom." And then _I_ broke down, and hid my face on the counterpane. Poor old Blair! And we boys had called him Baked Pie! I went to Paddington station to meet the train. Hannah was in it, and came bursting out upon me with a shriek that might have been heard at Oxford. Upon the receipt of the telegram, she and Mrs. Todhetley came to the conclusion that I had been run over, and was lying in some hospital with my legs off. That was through the Squire's wording of the message; he would not let me write it. "Send Hannah to London to-morrow by mid-day train, to nurse somebody that's in danger." Blair lingered three days yet before he died, sensible to the last, and quite happy. Not a care or anxiety on his mind about what had so troubled him all along--the wife and children. "Through God's mercy; He knows how to soothe the death-bed," said Mr. Lockett.