"Good Lord, your famous daughter dead!" exclaimed Jane.
"Died at the Cottage Hospital at half after ten," answered the old man. "And being myself mortal, I'm under a cloud for the minute. Not for her—not for her. There never was such a huckster in these parts as Mercy and never a better saleswoman."
"She had a great renown in Plymouth market," declared Jane.
"Yes—a renowned woman for a spinster. And she counted to work for another five years and then retire. But there comed a growth—one of they cursed things that creeps into the flesh unbeknownst. You feel all right for a bit, but death's burrowing in your vitals all the time; and then you be cut down and wither away."
"I hope she didn't suffer much," said Jeremy.
"I hope she didn't," answered Mr. Marydrew. "I know she's left me her savings, God bless her; but I'd a lot sooner she'd been at my death-bed, than I'd been at hers."
"You'll meet again before so very long," murmured Jane.
"A cheering thought," admitted the old man. "Yes, we shall come together in a few years, though I dare say that good woman's bit of money will keep me here longer than you might suppose. She knew very well I wouldn't waste it. I'm sorry for the parish that she's gone. The farms will look in vain for a huckster like her. The honestest woman ever I knew, after her mother."
"A very great loss indeed," said Jeremy.
"Yes, so it is then. You can judge a dead person pretty much by the hole they make when they drop out. Some don't make no hole—I shan't, and I dare say you won't; but others was so useful to the neighbours and such a tower of strength, that when they go, you most wonder how things will be without 'em."