declined coffee for old October. Then he must needs drain a stiff glass of brandy and water “to warm the old ale,” he said; and in very merry mood was Dick when the hounds broke covert. Now save the stone walls of Galway there are no worse fences than those of the Valley of the Holme. You must clear them at the peril of your neck. There is no crashing through a dry-walling,—a “topping” may give once in a way; but it is odds that it wont. Dick—Dare-devil Dick they called him in the hunting-field,—rode straight. The ground in the higher reaches had not yielded to the thaw or the morning sun. His horse baulked at an awkward fence, slipped, and failed to recover itself, and before Dick could disengage boot from stirrup, fell upon its side, with Dick crushed beneath. The broken ribs were pressed into the lungs, and though he lingered a few days at Mr. Hinchliffe’s house, he was borne from it a corpse.

“You will be good to Dorothy?” he said to Jabez and Jabez had pressed the clammy hand in silent promise.

“You’ll take her to live with you. She’s a bright little lass, like a ray of sunshine in the house. You wont let her forget her mother or her worthless dad, will you, Jabez? You’ll be taking a wife someday yourself, lad, an’ have childer o’ your own. But you won’t be hard on th’ little lass, will yo’, Jabez?”

And Jabez said she should be as his own.

“She won’t be bout brass, yo know, Jabez,” gasped the dying man, the sweat standing in heads upon his pale brow. “There’s my share i’th’ business, and odds and ends. Yo’ know all about ’em. I’d never no secrets fro’ yo, Jabez, though yo’ wer’ always a bit close, weren’t tha, lad? I’ve left everything to Dorothy an’ made yo’ her guardian an’ th’ executor. I know yo’ll do right bi th’ little ’un. I’m none feared for that. Th’ Tinkers aren’t that sort; but don’t be hard wi’ her. She’s nooan as tough as some, her mother’s bairn, God bless her.”

And so poor Dick was gathered to his fathers and lay in the old churchyard at Holmfirth by the fair, fragile wife’s side in the grim vault of the Tinkers. Not a mill worked in the district as they carried him to his grave. Men and Women “jacked work” with one accord and lined the route from the dead man’s house to the very side of the grave. For Dick with all his faults, perhaps, because of them, was dear to the simple folk of the valley, and many, a tale was told in the village inns, of cheery word and ready jest, and helping hand in time of need; and many a buxom housewife, as she stirred porridge for good man and bairns, smiled sadly 

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