“Where did they die?”
“Where they were sent, brother.”
“And Mrs. Herne?”
“She’s alive, brother.”
“Where is she now?”
“In Yorkshire, brother.”
“What is your opinion of death, Mr. Petulengro?” said I, as I sat down beside him.
“My opinion of death, brother, is much the same as that in the old song of Pharaoh, which I have heard my grandam sing—
‘Cana marel o manus chivios andé puv,
Ta rovel pa leste o chavo ta romi.’ [239]
When a man dies, he is cast into the earth, and his wife and child sorrow over him. If he has neither wife nor child, then his father and mother, I suppose; and if he is quite alone in the world,