Then his mind wandered away to his three sons who had fallen in their country's wars. "Miles! Christopher! Tristram!" he cried, and his glazed eyes were fastened on the door as if he expected them to enter. Then, dimly remembering the fate that had befallen them, he sank slowly back on the pillow. "They're deead, all deead," he murmured; "an' their bones are bleached lang sin. Miles deed at Corunna, Christopher at Waterloo, and I--I deant know wheer Tristram deed. They sud hae lived--lived to help me feight t' snakes." As he uttered the dreaded word his fingers clutched his throat as though he felt the coils of the monsters round his neck, and a piercing shriek escaped his lips. After a time he grew quieter and his voice sank almost to a whisper. "He makketh me to lie down i' green pasturs," he gently murmured, and, as he uttered the familiar words, a smile lit up his face. "There'll be nea snakes i' yon pasturs. I's thinkin'. ... He leadeth me beside t' still watters.... I know all about t' still watters; they flows through t' peat an' t' ling away on t' moor." Later in the day the doctor came, but a glance showed him that recovery was out of the question; and next morning, as the sun broke over the eastern fells, Peregrine Ibbotson passed away. The snakes had done their work; their deadly fangs had found the shepherd's heart. THROP'S WIFE In Yorkshire, when a man is very busy, we say he is "despert thrang"; but when he is so busy that "t' sweat fair teems off him," we say that he is as "thrang as Throp's wife." Now I had always been curious to know who Throp's wife was, and wherein her "thrangness" consisted, and what might be Throp's view of the matter; but all my inquiries threw no light upon the problem, and it seemed as though Throp's wife were going to prove as intangible as Mrs Harris. But I am not the man to be put off by feminine elusiveness, so I made a vow that I would give up smoking until I had found Throp's wife and made her mine. My summer holiday was coming on, and I decided that, instead of spending the week in Scarborough, I would make a tour through the towns and villages of the West Riding in search of Throp's wife. I took the matter as much to heart as if I had been a mediaeval knight setting forth to rescue some distressed damsel from the clutches of a wicked magician or monstrous hippogriff, and I called my expedition "the quest of Throppes wife"; as my emblem I chose the words "_Cherchez la femme_." I first of all turned my steps in the direction of Pudsey, for I knew that it had the reputation of being the home of lost souls. To my delight I found that Pudsey professed first-hand acquaintance with the lady. "Throp's wife," said Pudsey; "ay, iverybody has heerd tell abaat Throp's wife. Thrang as Throp's wife is what fowks allus say." "Yes, yes," I replied; "but what I want to know is who Throp's wife really was." "Why," answered Pudsey, "shoo'll happen hae bin t' wife o' a chap they called Throp."