I went on slowly up the path to meet Simon, and, as I went, my heart was heavy, and my mind full of a strange foreboding. But I never thought of the omen of the knife that had once fallen and quivered in the floor between us. "'Twere 'is snuff-box as done it!" said Simon, staring very hard at his horse's ears, as we jogged along the road. "'E were a-goin' upstairs for it, an' slipped, 'e did. 'Simon,' says he, as I lifted of 'im in my arms, 'Simon,' says 'e, quiet like, 'I be done for at last, lad—this poor old feyther o' yourn'll never go a-climbin' up these stairs no more,' says 'e—'never—no—more.'" After this Simon fell silent, and I likewise, until we reached the village. Before "The Bull" was a group who talked with hushed voices and grave faces; even Old Amos grinned no more. The old man lay in his great four-post bed, propped up with pillows, and with Prue beside him, to smooth his silver hair with tender fingers, and Black George towering in the shade of the bed-curtains, like a grieving giant. "'Ere I be, Peter," said the old man, beckoning me feebly with his hand, "'ere I be—at the partin' o' the ways, an' wi' summ'at gone wrong wi' my innards! When a man gets so old as I be, 'is innards be like glass, Peter, like glass—an' apt to fly all to pieces if 'e goes a-slippin' an' a-slidin' downstairs, like me." "Are you in pain?" I asked, clasping his shrivelled hand. "Jest a twinge, now an' then, Peter—but—Lord! that bean't nothin' to a man the likes o' me—Peter—" "You always were so hale and hearty," I nodded, giving him the usual opening he had waited for. "Ay, so strong as a bull, that I were! like a lion in my youth—Black Jarge were nought to me—a cart 'orse I were." "Yes," said I, "yes," and stooped my head lower over the feeble old hand. "But arter all, Peter, bulls pass away, an' lions, an' cart 'orses lose their teeth, an' gets wore out, for 'all flesh is grass'—but iron's iron, bean't it, Peter—rusts it do, but 'tis iron all the same, an' lasts a man out—even such a 'earty chap as I were?" "Sometimes," said I, without looking up. "An' I be very old an' tired, Peter; my 'eart be all wore out wi' beatin' an' beatin' all these years—'tis a wonder as it didn't stop afore now—but a—a—stapil, Peter, don't 'ave no 'eart to go a-beatin' an' a-wearin' of itself away?" "No, Ancient." "So 'ere be I, a-standin' in the Valley o' the Shadow, an' waitin' for God's Angel to take my 'and for to show me the way. 'Tis a darksome road, Peter, but I bean't afeared, an' there be a light beyond Jordan-water. No, I aren't afeared to meet the God as made me, for 'the Lord is merciful—and very kind,' an' I don't s'pose as 'E'll be very 'ard on a old, old man as did 'is best, an' wi' a 'eart all tired an' wore away wi' beatin'—I be ready, Peter only—" "Yes, Ancient?" "Oh, Peter!—it be that theer old stapil—as'll go on rustin' away an' rustin' away arter the old man as watched it so is laid in the earth, an' forgot about—"