"You say that to humour me, I fear, Tomkins, because I am ill. If there be such a Place for us, why not for you?"
"Lad, you must keep quiet, and not talk so, or you'll go there sooner than I wish."
"Well, I am glad thou admittest there is such a Place," returned I, beginning to feel greatly spent. "Only I wish you felt you should go there too."
"Boy, I'm not good enough," ejaculated he, with a shake of the Head. "Ah, if you feel that, I don't despair of you," quod I. "There's Hope for those that feel like forgiven Sinners or unforgiven Sinners: the only hopeless ones are those that don't feel Sinners at all. And now, Tomkins, just give me Something to drink."
He did so, holding up my Head on his Arm. "Is there Anything else," quod he, "I can do for thee?"
"Why, yes," quod I, wistfully, "and then I think I could go to sleep."
"What is it?" saith he very kindly. "I'll do it for thee."
—"Tomkins, is it St. Bartholomew's Eve yet? my Head is confused."
"Bartholomew's Eve, Lad? Why, that's passed!"
"Oh me! ... how long?"