But as he tied a knot in the stocking, came the fear that even this money might be misapplied; even his will might be ignored, through repeated postponement and the law's indifference. Who, save old Billy Skidmore, would care whether old Tommy McGuffy's last resting-place were designated or not? Once let the worms begin operations upon this antique morsel, what would it matter to Rearward folks where the banquet was taking place? Tommy now underwent a second attack of horror, from which he came victorious, a gleeful smile momentarily lifting the dimness from his excessively lachrymal eyes. “I'll fix 'em,” he said to himself. “I'll go to-day to Ricketts, the marble-cutter, and order my own tombstone.” Three months thereafter, Ricketts, the marble-cutter, untied the knot in the stocking that had been Billy's and deposited the contents in the local savings-bank. In the cemetery stood a monument very lofty and elaborate. Around it was an iron fence. Within the enclosure there was no grave as yet. “Here,” said the monument, in deep-cut-letters, but bad English, “lies all that remains of Thomas McGuffy, born in Rearward, November 11, 1820; died----. Gone whither the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.” This supplementary information was framed in the words of Tommy's favourite passage in his favourite hymn. His liking for this was mainly on account of its tune. He had left the date of his death to be inserted by the marble cutter after its occurrence. Rearward folks were amused at sight of the monument, and they ascribed the placing of it there to the eccentricity of a taciturn old man. Tommy seemed to derive much pleasure from visiting his tombstone on mild days. He spent many hours contemplating it. He would enter the iron enclosure, lock the gate after him, and sit upon the ground that was intended some day to cover his body. He was a familiar sight to people riding or walking past the graveyard,--this thin old man leaning upon his cane, contentedly pondering over the inscription on his own tombstone. He undoubtedly found much innocent pleasure in it. One afternoon, as he was so engaged, he was assailed by a new apprehension. Suppose that Ricketts, the marble-cutter, should fail to inscribe the date of his death in the space left vacant for it! There was almost no likelihood of such an omission, but there was at least a possibility of it. He glanced across the cemetery to Jerry Hurley's unmarked mound, and shuddered. Then he thought laboriously. When he left the cemetery in such time as to avoid a delay of his evening meal and a consequent outburst of anger on the part of his old housekeeper, he had taken a resolution. “Threescore years and ten, says the Bible,” he muttered to himself as he walked homeward. “The scriptural lifetime'll do for me.” A week thereafter old Tommy gazed proudly upon the finished inscription. “Died November 11, 1890,” was the newest bit of biography there engraved.