"As this stick rotteth to decay, So shall (Mr, Miss or Mrs So-and-so) rot away!" But with the exception of these little weaknesses, Mrs. Twitt was a good sort of motherly old body, warm-hearted and cheerful, too, despite her belief in omens. She had taken quite a liking to "old David" as she called him, and used to watch his thin frail figure, now since his illness sadly bent, jogging slowly down the street towards the sea, with much kindly solicitude. For despite Mr. Bunce's recommendation that he should "sit quiet," Helmsley could not bring himself to the passively restful condition of weak and resigned old age. He had too much on his mind for that. He worked patiently every morning at basket-making, in which he was quickly becoming an adept; but in the afternoon he grew restless, and Mary, seeing it was better for him to walk as long as walking was possible to him, let him go out when he fancied it, though always with a little anxiety for him lest he should meet with some accident. In this anxiety, however, all the neighbours took a share, so that he was well watched, and more carefully guarded than he knew, on his way down to the shore and back again, Abel Twitt himself often giving him an arm on the upward climb home. "You'll have to do some of that for me soon!" said Helmsley on one of these occasions, pointing up with his stick at the board over Twitt's door, which said "Good Grave-Work Guaranteed:" Twitt rolled his eyes slowly up in the direction indicated, smiled, and rolled them down again. "So I will,--so I will!" he replied cheerfully--"An I'll charge ye nothin' either. I'll make ye as pretty a little stone as iver ye saw--what'll last too!--ay, last till th' Almighty comes a' tearin' down in clouds o' glory. A stone well bedded in, ye unnerstan'?--one as'll stay upright--no slop work. An' if ye can't think of a hepitaph for yerself I'll write one for ye--there now! Bible texes is goin' out o' fashion--it's best to 'ave somethin' orig'nal--an' for originality I don't think I can be beat in these parts. I'll do ye yer hepitaph with pleasure!" "That will be kind!" And Helmsley smiled a little sadly--"What will you say of me when I'm gone?" Twitt looked at him thoughtfully, with his head very much on one side.