ON the third day after Mary's installation as nurse Mr. Garside passed peacefully away, better cared for in his last days than he had been for many a long year. Whether he regained full consciousness or not 'tis hard to say. He rambled in his talk a great deal, and 'twas sometimes of his mother, sometimes, we judged, of his college days and friends, but mostly of Esmeralda. He seemed to be, in his sick fancies, in the cottage at Grasmere, with his bride by his side, and then his face shone, and his look was the look of a man full of a rich content, but at times a cloud gathered on his countenance, his brow knitted, and he would peer anxiously about with a bewildered air as though searching for his soul's peace. "Esmeralda" was the last word that passed his lips. We buried him in Saddleworth Churchyard and Mary and myself were the only mourners. Before he lapsed to final unconsciousness, whilst yet he had what Mary called "his know," he signed a document drawn up by Dr. Dean, embodying the trust he had imposed on me, and appointing me his sole executor. I had suggested to the good doctor that he should join in the trust, but he declared with emphasis that he'd had enough to do with the bodies of the living without taking care of the goods of the dead. The day before the funeral, not deeming it prudent to leave Ephraim alone in the house with the dead man's horde, I got him, hobbling painfully on a crutch, as far as the "Floating Light." There I knew he could take conveyance to Slaithwaite, and once there I made no doubt he could shift for himself. I promised that I would see him on my very next visit to Pole Moor. Now Ephraim safely off my hands I was anxious to see my father and take his counsel on various matters, and, above all, to place that precious kist in a place more secure than a chimney could be deemed to be. I prevailed upon Jim to accompany me. I had often pressed him to spend a week-end with me at my father's house, but he had always made excuses, the chief being that he'd be nervous among "fine fo'k." In vain I had assured him that he would find no "fine fo'k" at Pole Moor. Jim had formed his conceptions of a parson from the vicar at St. Chad's, and I verily believe Jim would have as soon spent a night in jail as in the Vicarage of St. Chad's--sooner he had himself averred, if he could have "a reek o' baccy." However, it certainly was not to be thought of that I should carry the kist and its precious contents to Pole Moor with no company but my thoughts, for footpads over Stanedge were as common as blackberries.