Ned frowned and puzzled. Then, while Vivian groaned, he had an inspiration, and wrote rapidly. "How's this, father?" he asked. "It just flashed in my mind." Then he read:-- "Three score years and ten I kept my breath; So long I felt no fear of Death." "It goes very well, but I haven't got no more fear of death now than ever I had. You must alter that." Silence fell again and Ned mended his rhyme. "How would this answer?" he asked:-- "Three score years and ten I kept my breath And stood up like a man and feared not Death." "Yes, that's very good indeed. Now us must make two more lines to finish--that is, if we can be clever enough to think of 'em." Ned's pen squeaked and stopped, squeaked and stopped again. He scratched out and wrote for several minutes. "Listen to this, father," he said at length, "'tis better even than the first." He read once more:-- "Yet now I'm gone, my thread is spun, And I know my God will say, 'Well done!'" "The cleverness of it! And didn't I always say you were crammed up with cleverness? But the last line won't do." "'Tis the best of all, father." "Won't do, I tell you. Who be I to know my God will pat me on the back? Little enough to be pleased with--little enough. Put, 'I hope my God will say, "Well done!"'" "You may only hope, but all else know that He will," declared Ned stoutly. As he finished writing Nathan Baskerville entered with the wife of the sufferer. Hester brought a cup of hot milk, but Vivian in his excitement would not taste until the epitaph had been rehearsed. "Ned's thought," he said. "And I helped him. And I shall be proud to lie under it--any man might. Give me the paper." His son handed it to him, and he read the rhyme aloud with great satisfaction. "Three score years and ten I kept my breath, And stood up like a man and feared not Death; Yet now I'm gone, my thread is spun, And I hope my God will say, 'Well done!'" How's that, Nat? So good as the musicker's own in my judgment." "Splendid! Splendid!" declared Nathan. He was much moved. He blew his nose and went to the window awhile. Then, Vivian being relieved and fed, the innkeeper returned to him and sat beside him. Hester Baskerville and her son went out and left the brothers together. "Us'll talk business, Nat," said the sick man presently. "And first I want you to know that you'll have more than your trouble for your pains. 'Tis a common thing with dying people to leave a lot of work behind 'em for somebody to do, and never a penny piece of payment for doing it. But not me. There's fifty pound for you, Nat. I've scrimped in reason all my life. I've----" He was stopped by pain. "Ban't far off, I reckon. Can't talk much more. You'll do all right and proper. I trust my widow and childer to you. My boy Ned be no good at figures, so I look to you."