"Here to-day and gone to-morrow," continued Mr. Smithson, taking a seat.
"Well, well! So you'll have her at last-pore thing."

"That was his wish," said Mr. Clarkson, in a dull voice.

"And very generous of him too," said Mr. Smithson. "Everybody is saying
so. Certainly he couldn't take her away with him. How long is it since
you was both of you courting her?"

"Thirty years come June," replied the other.

"Shows what waiting does, and patience," commented Mr. Smithson. "If
you'd been like some chaps and gone abroad, where would you have been
now? Where would have been the reward of your faithful heart?"

Mr. Clarkson, whose pipe had gone out, took a coal from the fire and lit
it again.

"I can't understand him dying at his age," he said, darkly. "He ought to
have lived to ninety if he'd been taken care of."

"Well, he's gone, pore chap," said his friend. "What a blessing it must
ha' been to him in his last moments to think that he had made provision
for his wife."

"Provision!" exclaimed Mr. Clarkson. "Why he's left her nothing but the
furniture and fifty pounds insurance money--nothing in the world."

Mr. Smithson fidgeted. "I mean you," he said, staring.