everything she possessed to Susan, selected her last resting-place in the Melchester cemetery, not too near the grave of her second husband, the contractor and builder, and announced calmly that she was "ready." Quinney, of course, had a private word with Dr. Ransome, but that cautious diplomat had to admit that his patient might go suddenly. Quinney told Susan what had passed between them, using his own vernacular. "Old Pomposity is hedgin’—see? Just like him! Comes to this, Susie. You was at death’s door, seemin’ly, but, by Gum! you pulled through because you wouldn’t leave me!" Susan nodded, pressing his arm. "Works t’other way round with your mother. She’s made up her mind to die, and the doctor can’t argue her out of the notion. Her heart is weak, and if it begins flutterin’ it may stop for ever just because the pore old dear won’t will it to go on wigglin’. There y’are!" Susan was much upset. She loved her mother, although the two women had little in common, and the feminine instinct of ministration, root-pruned by her husband, began to sprout vigorously. She paid long daily visits to Laburnum Row, and Quinney soon noticed a falling off in the quality of his food. Twice they were summoned in the middle of the night to say good-bye to a woman who believed herself to be dying. "A bit thick!" said Quinney. "Joe!" "But, isn’t it? Let’s face the facts. You spend a lot o’ time away from home, away from Posy. Losin’ your nice fresh colour, you are! And I’m losin’ my appetite for the good meals I used to have." "But mother wants me. And any moment——" "So she thinks. Quite likely to make old bones yet. Now, look here, I’ve a plan—the only plan. I simply won’t have you trapesin’ round to Laburnum Row at all hours of the day and night. Tell your mother to pack up and come to us." Alas! poor Susan! She was hoist with her own petard. Protest died on her lips. She submitted, not daring to confess that a dying mother could be regarded by a dutiful daughter as an unwelcome visitor. Mrs. Biddlecombe, however, refused, at first, to budge. "Let me die here, Joseph." Quinney used the clinching argument. "You are not going to die, Mrs. B., but, if you did, just think of the sad job we’d have gettin’ you down them narrow stairs. And we never could receive all your friends in such a small parlour." "That’s true," sighed Mrs. Biddlecombe. "There’s a lot in what you say, Joseph." "There is, old dear! I’m uneducated, and I know it, but my talk is full o’ meat and gravy. It’s nourishing!"