approach of death for the benefit of Miller Lyddon.

"'T is awnly my fearless disposition," declared the wounded man with
great humility; "no partic'lar credit to me. I doan't care wan iotum for
the thought of churchyard mould--not wan iotum. I knaw the value of gude
rich soil tu well; an' a man as grudges the rames[3] of hisself to the
airth that's kept un threescore years an' ten's a carmudgeonly cuss,
surely."


[3] _Rames_ = skeleton; remains.


"An' so say I; theer's true wisdom in it," declared Mr. Chapple, while
the miller nodded.

"Theer be," concluded Gaffer Lezzard. "I allus sez, in my clenching way,
that I doan't care a farden damn what happens to my bones, if my
everlasting future be well thought on by passon. So long as I catch the
eye of un an' see um beam 'pon me to church now an' again, I'm content
with things as they are."

"As a saved sawl you 'm in so braave a way as the best; but, to say it
without rudeness, as food for the land a man of your build be nought,
Gaffer," argued Mr. Chapple, who viewed the veteran's withered anatomy
from his own happy vantage ground of fifteen stone.

But Gaffer Lezzard would by no means allow this.

"Ban't quantity awnly tells, my son. 'T is the aluminium in a man's