My family were all of Israel, and of the strictest sect. They fasted twice in the week, so to speak; in theory, if not in practice, they gave tithes of all that they possessed; they could sincerely thank God that they were not as such men as composed the Down and Out; and yet it was precisely among those who smote their breasts and didn’t dare so much as to lift up their eyes unto heaven that I found the sympathy that raised me to my feet and bade me be a man. No wonder, then, that that evening I kept poor old Lovey near me, that I took him down to the café, where there were only men, and made him dine with me, and told him of my bereavement. “Is he, now?” he said, drawing a melancholy face. “No one can’t live forever, can they? He’d have been an old, aged man, I expect.” I told him my father’s age. “Ah, well, at that time of life they gits carried off. Too bad you didn’t know in time for the funeral. Ye’d ’ave liked to see him laid away safe underground, wouldn’t ye, Slim? I ’ope he was in some good benefit club, like, that’ll take care of the expenses of burial. Awful dear, coffins is; but I suppose your family has a plot in some churchyard.” When I had assured him that this was the case he continued: “And as for goin’ off sudden—well, it’s awful ’ard on relations when a old, ancient man’ll lay round sick and don’t know when ’is time’s come. I’ve knowed ’em when you’d swear they hung on a-purpose, just to spite them as ’ad to take care of ’em. I ’ad a grandfather o’ me own—well, you’d think that old man just couldn’t die. Ninety, I believe he was, and a wicked old thing when he got silly, like. Take the pepper, he would, and pour it into the molasses-jug, and everything like that. Terr’ble fun he was for us young ones, especially one day when he dressed all up in ’is Sunday clothes and went out in the street without ’is pants. I don’t suppose yer guv’nor ever did the like o’ that, Slim. Don’t seem as if old people on this side ’ad them playful ways.” In this sort of reminiscence the evening went by, and in the morning I received a note that did much to comfort me. It was no more than the conventional letter of condolence from Mrs. Barry, but it was tactfully couched. “A loss like yours,” she wrote, “painful as it is at all times, becomes tragically so when the support one finds in family ties is too far away to sustain one. I have often found in my own experience that loneliness added a more poignant element to grief. I wish you would remember, dear Mr. Melbury, that you have friends at this Christmas-time quite near you. Run in and see us whenever you feel the need of a friendly word. We are leading a life here absolutely without engagements, and you will cheer us up more than we can cheer you. If on Christmas Eve you would care to look in between four and five you would find us here, and we could give you a cup of tea.”