As he finished writing Nathan Baskerville entered with the wife of the sufferer. Hester brought a cup of hot milk, but Vivian in his excitement would not taste until the epitaph had been rehearsed.
"Ned's thought," he said. "And I helped him. And I shall be proud to lie under it—any man might. Give me the paper."
His son handed it to him, and he read the rhyme aloud with great satisfaction.
"Three score years and ten I kept my breath,
And stood up like a man and feared not Death;
Yet now I'm gone, my thread is spun,
And I hope my God will say, 'Well done!'"
How's that, Nat? So good as the musicker's own in my judgment."
"Splendid! Splendid!" declared Nathan. He was much moved. He blew his nose and went to the window awhile. Then, Vivian being relieved and fed, the innkeeper returned to him and sat beside him. Hester Baskerville and her son went out and left the brothers together.
"Us'll talk business, Nat," said the sick man presently.
"And first I want you to know that you'll have more than your trouble for your pains. 'Tis a common thing with dying people to leave a lot of work behind 'em for somebody to do, and never a penny piece of payment for doing it. But not me. There's fifty pound for you, Nat. I've scrimped in reason all my life. I've——"
He was stopped by pain.
"Ban't far off, I reckon. Can't talk much more. You'll do all right and proper. I trust my widow and childer to you. My boy Ned be no good at figures, so I look to you."