‘I can find out all about it in my ledger,’ he said, ‘but I’ve a pretty good memory. I don’t like to feel dependent upon books. Ivy Cottage? That was Miss Fry’s house. I buried her a year ago. A very pretty funeral, everything suitable, and in harmony with the old lady’s character. Some of our oldest tradespeople followed. It was quite a creditable thing.’ Sampson waited hopefully while the old man pondered upon past triumphs in the undertaking line. ‘Let me see, now,’ he said musingly. ‘Ivy Cottage. I’ve done a good bit of business for Ivy Cottage within the last thirty years. I’ve buried--there--I should say a round dozen of Miss Fry’s tenants. They was mostly elderly folks, with small annuities, who came to Chiswick to finish up their lives; as a quiet old-fashioned place, you see, where they was in nobody’s way. First and last I should say I’ve turned out a round dozen from Ivy Cottage. It was a satisfaction to do things nicely for Miss Fry herself, at the wind up. She’d been a good friend to me, and she wasn’t like the doctors, you know. I couldn’t offer her a commission. Malcolm! Malcolm, husband and wife, I ought to remember that! Yes, I’ve got it! a sweet young lady, seven-and-twenty at the most, and the husband drooped and died soon afterwards. I remember. She had a very plain funeral, poor dear, for there didn’t seem to be much money, and the husband was the only mourner. We buried him in rather superior style, I recollect; for an old friend had turned up at the last, and there was enough money to pay all the little debts and do things very nicely, in a quiet way, for the poor gentleman. There were only two mourners in his case, the doctor and an elderly lady from London, who followed in her own carriage. I remember the lady, because she called upon me directly after the funeral, and asked me if I was paid, or sure of being paid, as the deceased was her nephew, and she would be willing to perform this last act of kindness for him. I thought it a very graceful thing for the lady to do.’ ‘Did she give you her address?’ asked Sampson. ‘I’ve a notion that she left her card, and that I copied the address into my book. It would be a likely thing for me to do, for I’m very methodical in my ways; and with a party of that age there’s always an interest. She might come to want me herself soon, and might bear it in mind on her death-bed. Well, now I’ve called upon my memory, I’ll look at my ledger.’ He went to a cupboard in a corner of the shop, and took down a volume from a row of tall, narrow books, a series which comprised ‘the story of his life from year to year.’ ‘Yes,’ he said, after turning over a good many leaves, ‘here it is. Mrs. Malcolm, pine, covered black cloth, black nails,----’ ‘That’ll do,’ interrupted Sampson, seeing Laura’s distressed look at these details; ‘now we want Mr. Malcolm.’ ‘Here he is, three months later. Stephen Malcolm, Esq., polished oak, brass handles,--a very superior article, I remember.’