At the Municipal luncheon which followed the inauguration of Crake Hall, one chair was vacant; the Mayor, in his opening remarks, referring sympathetically to the fact. Mr. Baxter, to whom had fallen the honour of reading the Address of Welcome to their distinguished guest that morning, had found the strain of the proceedings rather too great for his advanced years, and had reluctantly begged to be excused from participating further in the ceremonies of the day. In short, Mr. Baxter, his task completed, had gone home to bed. Later in the proceedings the Lord Lieutenant also alluded to the matter. His Lordship was a statesman of somewhat limited ideas, and it is just possible that he was grateful to have had a topic suggested to him. So he spoke quite feelingly of the empty chair--the chair which was to have been occupied by "our eminent fellow-citizen, Mr.--er--Buxton." It was a cheering and reassuring sign, he continued, of our national and civic solidity of character and sense of proportion that Broxborough, where to the unseeing eye of the outside world nothing seemed to matter save linoleum, should yet be able, amid its manifold industrial activities, to produce a man--a man in quite humble circumstances--to whom Linoleum was nothing and Letters everything. Napoleon had called us a nation of shopkeepers; but so long as a commercial community like Broxborough could go on breeding homespun scholars like Mr.--ah--Dexter, we as a nation could continue to give the lie to Napoleon. (Loud and prolonged applause.) Meanwhile the recipient of these testimonials lay a-dying in his own front parlour. Ada Weeks had put him straight to bed there on his return, utterly exhausted, from the Inauguration. All his frail physical powers had been concentrated for three days on making himself word-perfect in the Address--which he had delivered, by the way, flawlessly. Now reaction had come. An hour later, more nearly frightened than I had ever seen her, Ada fetched me. My patient had just asked me, faintly but fearlessly, one of the last questions that mortal man can ask; and I had given him his answer. "I am quite ready," he replied calmly. "I am only seventy-four; but it is well that a man should go at the zenith of his career." "Are there any arrangements you would like to make?" I asked. "Anything you would like to say?" "Yes. Is Ada there?" "Of course I am there!" The small, stricken figure crouching on the other side of the bed put out a skinny paw and took the old man's hand. She held it steadfastly for the rest of the time he lived. "Would you like to see the Rector?" I asked. "No, no. I am at peace with God. It is of my little granddaughter that I would speak." His voice was stronger now. "My annuity dies with me. I have some small savings, which she will receive. But they will not keep her. I shall be grateful if you will exert your influence, sir, in enabling her to go into service."