At last the morning came, and the Squire so many hours nearer death, was, nevertheless, now like himself.
In due course the clergyman arrived, and the housekeeper, and serious Jim Hopper of the mill, close by, attended to make up a little congregation with whom the dying Squire was to receive that most “comfortable” Sacrament, before setting out on his long journey.
“You’re distinctly a Church of England man?” inquired the clergyman gently.
“Ay, what do you take me for?”
“I make it a rule, dear sir, to inquire. I have once or twice found Presbyterians and other Dissenters among the attendants at my church at Nottingham before I came here, and I am happy to hear so clear an answer to my inquiry,” said the clergyman with a gracious solemnity.
“The crow thinks her own bird fairest—go on,” said Squire Harry.
After these rites were over, the Squire needed rest.
Then, after an hour or so, he called for Tom Ward.
“Well, Tom, we a’ lived a long while together—here in Wyvern—you and me, and ‘be the day never so long, at last cometh even’-song,’ as they say, and now the doctor thinks my time be come, and I sent for ye to shake hands, Tom, and bid ye good-bye.”
Tom was drying his eyes hastily, and his old face was more puckered than ever.