"Now look here, Susie, I ain’t going to have another." She laughed faintly, as she replied: "It isn’t you who will have it. Mother says she wishes that the men could take turn and turn about." "Ho! Said that, did she? You tell her from me that I suffered quite enough with my first. Enough to last me all my life, and yours, too!" Susan shook with laughter. "Oh, Joe, you are a darling!" "Silly name to call me! Red-headed and freckled! But no more nonsense about little sons. When my daughter marries, her husband can take my name. See?" "I see," said Susan; "but I’m afraid baby’s husband may not." At the end of three years, a small cloud arose in their clear sky. Mrs. Biddlecombe announced solemnly that she was seriously ill, and about to meet her Maker. *CHAPTER VIII* *LIGHT OUT OF THE DARKNESS* *I* When Mrs. Biddlecombe made this solemn declaration it never occurred to either Quinney or Susan to dispute the infallibility of such a statement. The worthy lady belonged to a type rapidly becoming extinct in this country, a type which has provoked the astonishment and humorous criticism of foreigners. She had never questioned what she devoutly held to be certain divinely-revealed truths. Persons who presumed to differ from her, or perhaps it would be fairer to say, from the indiscriminate mass of public opinion which she represented, were accounted beyond the pale of Christian charity and toleration, _tout comprendre c’est tout pardonner_ being an arrow which glances harmlessly against prejudice and predilection. There was no joint in her armour of righteousness through which it could penetrate. The type is still so common that comment upon it would be tedious. Amongst other cherished beliefs was a conviction that illness came direct from God. Had Susan, as a child, been struck down with typhoid fever, Mrs. Biddlecombe would have accepted the blow with resignation and tended the sufferer, under the direction of a medical attendant, with exemplary tenderness and fortitude. She would not have overhauled the system of drainage. Accordingly, when the Hand of Providence—as she put it—was laid heavily upon her massive body, she accepted the infirmity with pious resignation, and informed Laburnum Row that it was the beginning of the end. Dr. Ransome diagnosed the case, accurately enough, as cardiac weakness arising from chronic dyspepsia. His patient was of a full habit, and took no exercise beyond the common round of duties connected with her small house. A competent servant "did" for her, perhaps in more senses than one. Ransome, of course, reassured her again and again in regard to her symptoms. They were such as could not be ignored at her age—fifty-five—but with care and a less generous diet she might reasonably hope to live happily for many years. Mrs. Biddlecombe refused to believe this. She made her will, leaving