“Why,” cried Snac, “what's the matter with the man?”
“The young uns see nothin', Miss Blythe,” said Mrs. Sennacherib, shaking her head again, but this time with a sort of relish. “But old experienced folks can tell when any poor feller-creetur's time is drawing nigh. His father went just at his time o' life by the same road as he's a-takin'.”
“Well, what road is he takin'?” her son demanded.
“Look at his poor hands,” said Mrs. Sennacherib, with a pitying gusto. “As thin as egg-shells, and with no more color in 'em than there is in that cha-ney saucer. Hark to that dry cough as keeps on a hack-hack-hackin' at him.”
“Pooh!” cried young Sennacherib. “He's been like that as long as I can remember him.”
“Mark my words,” his mother answered, with a stronger air of doleful relish than before, “he'll niver be like that much longer.”
“Theer's them as looks at the dark side,” returned Snac, “and them as looks at the bright. Niver say die till your time comes. I'll go and wake him up a bit, though he's no great hand at a bargain, and seems to find less contentment in gettin' on the blind side of a man than most on 'em. Good-mornin', mother; good-mornin', mum.”
Snac took his way with a flourish, and his mother looked after the tight-clad legs, the broad shoulders, the tall collar, and the rakish hat with mournful admiration.
“Do you think,” asked the little old maid, coughing behind her hand, and looking out of window as she spoke, as if the theme had but little interest for her, “that Mr. Ezra Gold is really unwell?”
“Yes, my dear,” said Mrs. Sennacherib; “he's got enough to last his time, unless it should please the Lord to send him a new and suddener affliction. I've seen a many go the same road. It's mostly the young as bears his particular kind of sufferin', but it's on his face in as plain readin' as the family Bible. He's a lonish sort of a man, save for his nephew Reuben, but he'll ha' the parish for his mourners when his time does come. The gentlest, harmlessest creetur as ever was a neighbor is Ezra Gold.”