[CHAPTER XXIII.]
PICTURES.
LYING still upon the mattress of his garret bed, with only one thin blanket over him, his brown wasted hands clasped across his broad chest, and some flakes of silvery hair straying over the wide sunburnt brow, on which the very peace of God seemed stamped as with God's own signet-stone,—so lay Job Kippis, as he had lain and never yet arisen since the day when "daily bread," but not "daily comfort," had failed him. Ailie sat on the foot of the bed, and Hor had taken up his station near on the broken chair, with his face towards the back, and his chin bent down upon his hands.
"'Tis very well, all that," he said discontentedly, "an' I dare say it's a deal better for her. I don't say 'tisn't; but I says I'd rather ha' kep' her with ourselves, I would."
"Aye, we're selfish mortals, the best among us," said Job. "Talk o' lovin' our friends, an' then when God wants to take 'em home to glory—oh, no, we're all for prayin', an' weepin', an' wantin' to keep them among their troubles an' away from happiness, just as long as we can. It's a selfish love at the best, it is, lad."
"I'm not a-talkin' of dyin'. I'm a-talkin' of Lettie," said Hor.
"And I'm a seein' pictures, lad, as I loves to do. Ain't the world full o' pictures, an' people won't see 'em with their blind eyes? Ain't it all a picture about little Lettie now, if we'll see it?"
Hor made an inarticulate sound, which might have meant anything.
"A pictur' of what, gran'father?" asked Ailie.