“There’s always—er—something,” said Andy, feeling he ought to improve the occasion.
“There is, indeed,” sighed Mrs. Petch, with a sort of serious cheerfulness. “No rose without a thorn in this world, sir, and we can’t expect any different. We should never want to go to another if we’d everything we wanted here.”
“Nice, right-thinking woman!” reflected Andy, as he went up the road.
He was on his way to visit a woman called old Mrs. Werrit, an obscure connection of the Werrit family who had drifted near them again in her extreme old age, and Andy had been told that day that she was dying. But he was ready enough to help any old person to die, just as he was ready to help any young one to live, and he went up some crooked stairs to the bedroom, full of confidence in himself and his office.
For some time the old woman said nothing in response to his remarks, and allowed a daughter of Mrs. Will Werrit’s to answer for her. Maggie Werrit felt rather glad that her aged relative was not in a talkative mood because she lacked that polish which the best boarding-school in Bardwell had imparted to the latest generation of the family, and the new Vicar would look down on them all if he heard one of them talk about ‘ankerchers.’
“I hope you don’t suffer much?” said Andy, sitting down beside the bed.
Then Mrs. Werrit opened her eyes, and he was surprised to find how full of life they were in that sunken, dull old face.
“I did suffer,” she said, “but that’s over now,” and she shut her eyes again.
Andy took out his little book and prepared to read, when Mrs. Werrit looked at him once more.
“The others are all gone first,” she said. “Every one of us six but me.”