"How would this answer?" he asked:—
"Three score years and ten I kept my breath
And stood up like a man and feared not Death."
"Yes, that's very good indeed. Now us must make two more lines to finish—that is, if we can be clever enough to think of 'em."
Ned's pen squeaked and stopped, squeaked and stopped again. He scratched out and wrote for several minutes.
"Listen to this, father," he said at length, "'tis better even than the first." He read once more:—
"Yet now I'm gone, my thread is spun,
And I know my God will say, 'Well done!'"
"The cleverness of it! And didn't I always say you were crammed up with cleverness? But the last line won't do."
"'Tis the best of all, father."
"Won't do, I tell you. Who be I to know my God will pat me on the back? Little enough to be pleased with—little enough. Put, 'I hope my God will say, "Well done!"'"
"You may only hope, but all else know that He will," declared Ned stoutly.