A queer little man, that new grave-digger. He was digging a grave, as I was going to church this morning. I asked him whom it was for. “For whom God will,” says he, “perhaps for myself. I might have the same experience as my grandfather. He once had got an extra grave ready, and that night when he was going home from the inn, he fell in and broke his neck.” LEONARD (_who has been reading the paper all the time_). The fellow doesn’t belong to this town; he can tell us any lies he likes. MOTHER. I asked him why he didn’t wait till there was an order for a grave. “I’m invited to a wedding to-day,” he said, “and I’m prophet enough to know that I shall feel it in my head to-morrow morning. Then somebody’s sure to have gone and died, just to spite me, and that would mean getting up early without finishing my sleep.” ANTHONY. “You fathead,” I’d have said, “what if the grave doesn’t fit?” MOTHER. That’s what I said. But he can shake out sharp answers as quick as the devil can shake out fleas. “I’ve made it to fit Weaver John,” says he, “he’s as big as King Saul, head and shoulders above everybody else. So anybody can come that likes--he won’t find his house too small for him. And if it’s too big, it’ll hurt no one but me. I’m an honourable man and won’t charge for an inch over the coffin-length.” I threw my flowers in, and said, “Now it’s occupied.” ANTHONY. I think the fellow was only joking, but that’s bad enough. Digging graves in advance is like setting death-traps. The scoundrel ought to be sacked for it. (_To_ LEONARD, _who is reading_.) Any news? Is some kind creature looking for a poor widow who could do with a few pounds? Or is it the other way about, the widow looking for the friend that will give her them? LEONARD. There’s news of a jewel-robbery. Funny thing! It shows that, although times are bad, there are still people among us that own jewels. ANTHONY. A jewel-robbery! At whose house? LEONARD. At Wolfram’s, the merchant’s. ANTHONY. Wolfram’s--impossible! That’s where Karl went to polish a desk a few days ago. LEONARD. They were stolen from the desk, right enough. MOTHER (_to_ ANTHONY). May God forgive you for saying that! ANTHONY. You’re right. It was a base thought. MOTHER. I must say, that to your son you’re only half a father. ANTHONY. We won’t talk about that to-day, wife. MOTHER. Do you think he must be bad, just because he’s different from you? ANTHONY. Where is he now? It’s long past dinner-time. I’ll wager the food is all boiled away or dried up, because Clara has secret orders not to set the table till he comes. MOTHER.