your time, keg of nails--you. Sorrow and prayer at the throne of grace
that she may have a contrite heart"--he clutched the funeral bill tighter
in his fingers--"is what we must feel for her. The day the Sieur died
and it all came out, I wept. Bedtime come I had to sop my eyes with
elder-water. The day o' the burial mine eyes were so sore a-draining I
had to put a rotten sweet apple on 'em over-night--me."

"Ah bah, she doesn't need rosemary wash for her hair!" said the
apprentice admiringly, looking down the street after Guida as she turned
into the Rue d'Egypte.

Perhaps it was a momentary sympathy for beauty in distress which made the
Master say, as he backed from the doorway with stealthy step:

"Gatd'en'ale, 'tis well she has enough to live on, and to provide for
what's to come!"

But if it was a note of humanity in the voice it passed quickly, for
presently, as he examined the bill for the funeral of the Sieur de
Mauprat, he said shrilly:

"Achocre, you've left out the extra satin for his pillow--you."

"There wasn't any extra satin," drawled the apprentice.

With a snarl the Master of Burials seized a pen and wrote in the account:

Item: To extra satin for pillow, three livres.