"I'll do it, Mistress Fairbrother," mumbled the old parson through his toothless gums, "for right is right, and justice justice."
"Chut!" said Mrs. Fairbrother.
But the parson's deaf ears did not hear. "And, ah!" he said, "the things of this world seem worthless, do they not, when we catch a glimpse into eternity?"
"Less cry and more wool," said Mrs. Fairbrother, dryly. "I wouldn't trust but old as you are you'd look with more love on a guinea than the Gospel calls for."
The people answered the parson's summons quickly enough, and came to Lague next morning, the men in their rough beavers, the old women in their long blue cloaks, and they followed the old parson into Mrs. Fairbrother's room, whispering among themselves, some in a doleful voice others in an eager one, some with a cringing air, and others with an arrogant expression. The chamber was darkened by a heavy curtain over the window, but they could see Mrs. Fairbrother propped up by pillows, whereon her thin, pinched, faded face showed very white. She had slept never a moment of the night; and through all the agony of her body her mind had been busy with its reckonings. These she had made Greeba to set down in writing, and now with the paper on the counterpane before her, and a linen bag of money in her hand, she sat ready to receive her people. When they entered there was deep silence for a moment, wherein her eyes glanced over them, as they stood in their strong odors of health around her.
"Where's your brother, Liza Joughan?" she said to a young woman at the foot of the bed.
"Gone off to 'Meriky ma'am," the girl faltered, "for he couldn't live after he lost the land."
"Where's Quirk of Claughbane?" asked Mrs. Fairbrother, turning to the parson.
"The poor man's gone, sister," said the parson, in a low tone. "He died only the week before last."
Mrs. Fairbrother's face assumed a darker shade, and she handed the paper to Greeba.