"Mother, father, put your arms round me."
Close, close beat the loving hearts, one growing fainter, fainter, until, though still it fluttered, they could neither see nor hear its pulsation. Teddy lay still for hours, for the most part with his eyes closed; but at long intervals the lids were slightly raised for a few moments at a time. Whether he saw anything before him they did not know, but they knew by an occasional slight movement of his fingers, which feebly strove to clasp the hands in which they were enfolded, that the tide of life had not quite run out. In the midst of their deep trouble it consoled them that he was in peace, and that it was mercifully ordained that he should pass away without suffering; for all through these memorable hours, which formed for them a sad and loving memory till they themselves received the summons to eternity, a smile rested on his lips. It was there when a linnet in a cage down-stairs began to chirp and twitter in the early morning. Teddy did not hear the sweet sounds; he had answered the call, and his soul was with God and the angels.
"So you've got the clothes, Timothy," said Mr. Loveday on the following day.
"Yes, sir," said Timothy; and he told the bookseller about Teddy.
"Ah," said Mr. Loveday, "so goes on forever and a day the mystery of life and death, never for one moment ceasing its work. Timothy, your fowl has laid another egg. Shall we value it at five farthings?"
"Keep it, sir, and welcome," said Timothy.
"No, my lad. Justice is justice, and I get it cheap. I engage you, Timothy, as my assistant, at eighteen pence a week and board and lodging. Satisfaction given, a rise of sixpence a week at the end of six months; satisfaction still given, and all going along comfortably, a rise of another sixpence at the end of twelve months. What do you say?"
"I am very thankful to you, sir," replied Timothy.
"You will want to go to the funeral, Timothy?"
"Of course I can spare you. Friends are not so plentiful, dead or alive."
We return to Nansie and Kingsley. They were still in Godalming. Nansie's father was buried, a quiet funeral, with only Nansie and Kingsley as mourners; the horse and caravan were sold, and the loving couple who were now to commence the battle of life in real, right-down earnest, had taken humble lodgings for a week or two, pending the serious question as to what they should do. Until after the funeral Nansie had no heart to write to her uncle in London. She had thought of acquainting him with the death of his brother, and asking him whether he would wish to attend the funeral, but the knowledge of the estrangement of the brothers during her father's lifetime, and a feeling of loyalty towards her father, who, in this estrangement, had been, in her belief, harshly treated, caused her to postpone the writing of her letter till the last sad offices were fulfilled. There was another reason. She feared that her uncle was a man of hard disposition, and that his resentment against his brother might find an outlet over the grave of the dear father she loved so well. This fear also sustained her. An inharmonious note springing from an unkind nature, during her days of fresh sorrow, an inharmonious note which might have been detected even when the dear remains were consigned to their last resting-place, would have been too painful to her to bear, and would, besides, have been a desecration. Therefore it was that many days passed by before Nansie communicated to her uncle the news of his brother's death.