"I s'pose he's awfull' fond of you, Uncle Dick?"
"Not that I know of."
"Then why did he kiss your hand?"
"Oh, well--er--perhaps it is a way he has!"
"He didn't kiss mine," said the Imp.
A door opened and closed very softly, and Lisbeth came towards us down the path, whereupon the Imp immediately "took cover" in the ditch.
"He is dead, Dick!" she said, as I opened the gate. "He died in his son's arms--the George he was always talking about. And oh, Dick, he died trying to sing 'The British Grenadiers.'"
"Poor old Jasper!" I said.
"His son was a convict once, wasn't he?"
"Yes."