“The landlord of the Dipping-Pool? It’s the Methodist parson he wants, not me.”
“Not him. He’s been a-calling out for you all the morning. I was just off to Crishowell when I see’d you go by the door. He’s pretty nigh done, an’ he’s crying out for you. There’s somethin’ on his mind, an’ he says he can’t tell no one else.”
Mr. Lewis turned the horse’s head, his own troubles retreating, as they were apt to do, before those of other people. Following his guide, he entered a small, dirty room. It was getting dusk outside, which made the miserable place dark enough to prevent his seeing anything but the one ghastly face in the corner lit up by a candle which stood on a chair by the bed. There was the movement of a dim form in the room, and the doctor who attended the very poor in the town rose from the place where he had been sitting. The woman approached the dying man and whispered close to his ear; a wan ray of relief touched his face, and he moved his hands.
“He is very near his end,” said the doctor. “It is typhoid. These jails are not all that they should be, I am afraid. He has been a bad character too, poor wretch.”
The Vicar went up to Hosea, and the shabby woman moved the candle away so that he might sit on the chair beside him.
“I can’t see,” said Evans thickly.
“I am here,” said Mr. Lewis, laying his hand on the wrist from which the pulse was fast ebbing; “what can I do for you, my brother? Shall I pray?”
Hosea moved his head feebly.
“No, no; I want to speak a bit, but I can’t, I’m that done.”