Dr. Blundell soothed him by giving his illness a name.
"It's Anno Domini, Jack."
"What be that? I niver yeard till on't befar," he said suspiciously.
"It's incurable, Jack," said the doctor, gravely.
Happy Jack was consoled. He rolled out the word with relish to his next visitor.
"Him's vound it out at last. 'Tis the anny-dominy, and 'tis incurable. You'm can't du nart vor I. I got tu go; and 'taint no wonder, wi' zuch a complaint as I du lie here wi'. The doctor were vair beat at vust; but him worried it out wi' hisself tu the last. Him's a turble gude doctor, var arl he wuden't go tu the war."
Sarah visited him every day. He was so frail and withered a little object that it seemed as though he could waste no further, and yet he dwindled daily. But he suffered no pain, and his wits were bright to the end.
This evening the faint whistle of his voice was fainter than ever, and she had to bend very low to catch his gasping words. He lay propped up on the pillows, with a red scarf tied round the withered scrag of his throat, and his spotless bed freshly arrayed by his mate's mother, who lived with them and "did for" both.
"They du zay as Master Peter be carting of 'ee, Miss Zairy," he whispered. "Be it tru?"
"Yes, Jack dear, it's true. Are you glad?"