‘Thaa's had th' uttermost farthin', but thaa's God to square wi' yet.’
II.
THE REDEMPTION OF MOSES FLETCHER.
Moses Fletcher was suffering from what the doctor called ‘nervous shock,’ with sundry wounds of a severe nature received in an attempt to rescue his dog in a canine mêlée.
He was a medium-sized man, with a hatchet face, lit by keen gray eyes, small as a ferret's; and, by way of apology for a mouth, displayed a thin lip-line which fell at either end with a cruel and cynical curve.
As he lay in bed, with a face as white as the counterpane which covered him, he now and again extended his bandaged hand to the favourite hound that rested on a plaid shawl at his feet, calling it by endearing names, and welcoming its warm and faithful caresses.
The chamber was small, but cosy, with many evidences of comfort. Trellised greenery looked in at him through the deep-splayed windows, and tapped a welcome on the diamond panes. He had, however, no ear for this salute. Nor did he eye with delight the flowering geraniums that clustered so thickly in the pots filling the sills. Nor did he even care for the great bars of sunlight that fell in golden splendour across his bed, causing the old dog to wink, and sneeze, and smile beneath their mellowing beams. No, these were nothing to him; indeed, they never had been—he had lived for years oblivious alike to tree and flower and sun.