With a trembling, but eager gripe, he seized the paper, as a miser would seize the deeds of an estate on which he has a mortgage. He smoothed the folds, looked complacently at the well-known hand, smiled--a ghastly smile! and then placed the letter under his pillow, and sank down; they left him alone. He did not wake for some hours, and that good clergyman, poor as himself, was again at his post. The only friendships that are really with us in the hour of need are those which are cemented by equality of circumstance. In the depth of home, in the hour of tribulation, by the bed of death, the rich and the poor are seldom found side by side. Caleb was evidently much feebler; but his sense seemed clearer than it had been, and the instincts of his native kindness were the last that left him. “There is something he wants me do for him,” he muttered. “Ah! I remember: Jones, will you send for the parish register? It is somewhere in the vestry-room, I think--but nothing’s kept properly. Better go yourself--‘tis important.” Mr. Jones nodded, and sallied forth. The register was not in the vestry; the church-wardens knew nothing about it; the clerk--a new clerk, who was also the sexton, and rather a wild fellow--had gone ten miles off to a wedding: every place was searched; till, at last, the book was found, amidst a heap of old magazines and dusty papers, in the parlour of Caleb himself. By the time it was brought to him, the sufferer was fast declining; with some difficulty his dim eye discovered the place where, amidst the clumsy pothooks of the parishioners, the large clear hand of the old friend, and the trembling characters of the bride, looked forth, distinguished. “Extract this for me, will you?” said Caleb. Mr. Jones obeyed. “Now, just write above the extract: “‘Sir,--By Mr. Price’s desire I send you the inclosed. He is too ill to write himself. But he bids me say that he has never been quite the same man since you left him; and that, if he should not get well again, still your kind letter has made him easier in his mind.” Caleb stopped. “Go on.” “That is all I have to say: sign your name, and put the address--here it is. Ah, the letter,” he muttered, “must not lie about! If anything happens to me, it may get him into trouble.” And as Mr. Jones sealed his communication, Caleb feebly stretched his wan hand, held the letter which had “come too late” over the flame of the candle. As the blazing paper dropped on the carpetless floor, Mr. Jones prudently set thereon the broad sole of his top-boot, and the maidservant brushed the tinder into the grate. “Ah, trample it out:--hurry it amongst the ashes. The last as the rest,” said Caleb, hoarsely. “Friendship, fortune, hope, love, life--a little flame, and then--and then--”