“I had some very serious words with Zeus Gildersedge,” he said. “I found him to-day in a subdued and penitent spirit, thanks to the good counsel that I had left to germinate in his heart. He grew quite trustful, spoke to me about his money and his daughter. He confessed that he was troubled about the wench.” “Surely, Jacob,” said the vicaress, “you did not advise him to try his strength by worrying about so abandoned a hussy?” Mr. Mince sipped his tea, besprinkling his waistcoat with customary libations. “My dear,” he retorted, “I had more Christian forethought than to increase the old man’s troubles. In fact, I told him that it would be an absolute sin for him to darken his last moments with reflections that were unnecessary and unpleasant.” “Admirable tact, my dear.” “I demonstrated to him how little the girl deserved his remembrance or claimed his pity.” “Exactly.” “That she had wilfully deserted him to follow a notorious blackguard.” “Precisely.” “That certain folk are undeserving of consideration, and that one must set one’s face sternly against impertinent iniquity and gross ingratitude.” “My dear,” said the vicaress, “you have the spirit of a Solomon. If Zeus Gildersedge left the girl any of his money it would only fall into the hands of that young brute Gabriel Strong. And such a circumstance could only be deplored as the actual subsidizing of immorality.” Mr. Mince sat up suddenly in his chair, as though the idea had stimulated his spinal marrow. “Pomponia,” he said, “you are a most intelligent woman; strangely enough, that is the very argument I used to impress my point upon Zeus Gildersedge.” The vicaress refilled her husband’s cup. “The old man saw the wisdom of your words?” she asked. “Absolutely. My logic triumphed.” The pair subsided into silence for a season, a peaceful interlude suffused as with a beatific sanctity. The fire jigged and flickered in the grate. Mr. Mince’s gray socks smoked. The black cat purred beneath the vicaress’s bony hand. “And the money?” she said, at last, her large, yellow face gleaming in the fire-light. Her husband awoke as from some saintly reverie. “Zeus Gildersedge stated certain facts to me,” he said, “facts that I may confide to your admirable discretion.” “Of course, my dear.” “Mrs. Primmer and I were witnesses to his will. He has left the bulk of his money to charitable enterprises and missions.” “Most creditable.” “A solid annuity has been settled on Mrs. Primmer.” “A most deserving woman.” “He has also bequeathed a certain sum to be used by me in the parish—to be used, my dear, at my own discretion.” “Excellent man.” “I must confess, Pomponia, that Zeus Gildersedge is departing this world with a chastened and regenerate soul.” “Due, my dear Jacob, to your Christian zeal.” “I shall bury him in Saltire church-yard, and make no charge for it upon his estate.” Mrs. Mince beamed on him out of the fulness of her heart.