After many minutes had passed, Uncle Joe began to speak to his nephew.
His voice was weak and the words came haltingly.

"Tom, you are a good boy--as good as gold. No, that isn't fair to you.
You're better than gold. I honestly believe you like me, wretched and
troublesome as I am. Your mother loved me, Tom. No one ever had a
sister who loved a brother more than she loved me. Thank God, she died
long before I came to this dreadful pass. She was spared seeing me as
I am now. Well, I want to ask a last favour of you, nephew. I want you
to see that I am buried beside your mother up at Syracuse. Just have a
simple funeral, my boy. No fuss, no flowers, no singing. Then take me
up to the old burying ground and--and I won't bother any one after
that. I suppose it will cost you something to do it, but--but if you
knew how much it will mean to me now if I have your promise to--"

"Sh!" whispered Mr. Bingle. "Don't talk of dying, Uncle Joe. Don't
speak of graveyards while--"

"Will you promise? That's the question," said Uncle Joe stubbornly.

"Yes," said Mr. Bingle painfully; "when the time comes I'll lay you
beside my mother. Don't worry about it, Uncle Joe."

"I hate to put you to the expense of--"

"Pooh!" said Mr. Bingle, as if the cost of the thing was the merest
trifle to him.

"If I were to live for a thousand years, Tom, I could never find the