“God forbid, father; don't talk of such dreadful things,” said Grannie, napping her apron. “Do you say his mother, ma'am? Is she in life? No, but under the sod, I don't know the years. Information of the lungs, poor thing.” “I've known him since I was a slip of a boy,” said one. “It was whip-top time--no, it was peg-top time----” “I saw him the morning he sailed,” said another. “I was standing _so_----” “Mr. Christian saw him last,” moaned Grannie, and the people in the bar-room peered through at Philip with awe. “I felt like a father for the lad myself,” said Cæsar, “he was always my white-headed boy, and I stuck to him with life. He desarved it, too. Maybe his birth was a bit mischancy, but what's the ould saying, 'Don't tell me what I was, tell me what I am.' And Pete was that civil with the tongue--a civiller young man never was.” Black Tom _tsht_ and spat. “Why, you were shouting out of mercy at the lad, and knocking him about like putty. He wouldn't get lave to live with you, and that's why he went away.” “You're bad to forget, Thomas--I've always noticed it,” said Cæsar. “You'll be putting the bell about, and praiching his funeral, eh, Cæsar?” said somebody. “'Deed, yes, man, Sabbath first,” said Cæsar. “That's impossible, father,” said Grannie. “How's the girl to have her black ready?” “Sunday week, then, or Sunday fortnight, or the Sunday after the Melliah (harvest-home),” said Cæsar; “the crops are waiting for saving, but a dead man is past it. Oh, I'll be faithful, I'll give it them straight, it's a time for spaking like a dying man to dying men; I'll take a tex' that'll be a lesson and a warning, 'Ho, every one that thirsteth----” Black Tom _tsht_ and spat again. “I wouldn't, Cæsar; they'll think you're going to trate them,” he muttered. Philip was asked for particulars, and he brought out a letter. Jonaique Jelly, John the Clerk, and Johnny the Constable had come in by this time. “Read it, Jonaique,” said Cæsar. “A clane pipe first,” said Black Tom. “Aren't you smook-ing on it, Cæsar? And isn't there a croppa of rum anywhere? No! Not so much as a plate of crackers and a drop of tay going? Is it to be a totaller's funeral then?” “This is no time for feasting to the refreshment of our carnal bodies,” said Cæsar severely. “It's a time for praise and prayer.” “I'll pud up a word or dwo,” said the Constable meekly. “Masther Niplightly,” said Cæsar, “don't be too ready to show your gift. It's vanity. I'll engage in prayer myself.” And Cæsar offered praise for all departed in faith and fear. “Cæsar is nod a man of a liberal spirit, bud he is powerful in prayer, dough,” whispered the Constable. “He isn't a prodigal son, if that's what you mane,” said Black Tom. “Never seen him shouting after anybody with a pint, anyway.” “Now for the letter, Jonaique,” said Cæsar. It was from one of the Gills' boys who had sailed with Pete, and hitherto served as his letter-writer.