The single female servant, her red hair loose on her neck, replied to the call.
"And how is the master ?" "Very bad;" and the girl wiped her eyes.
"He should leave you something handsome," remarked the postman, kindly, as he pocketed the money for the letter.
The pastor was in bed--the boisterous wind rattled clown the chimney and shook the ill-fitting casement in its rotting frame.

The clothes he had last worn were thrown carelessly about, unsmoothed, unbrushed; the scanty articles of furniture were out of their proper places; slovenly discomfort marked the death-chamber.

And by the bedside stood a neighbouring clergyman, a stout, rustic, homely, thoroughly Welsh priest, who might have sat for the portrait of Parson Adams.
"Here's a letter for you," said the visitor.
"For me!" echoed Caleb, feebly.

"Ah--well--is it not very dark, or are my eyes failing ?" The clergyman and the servant drew aside the curtains and propped the sick man up: he read as follows, slowly, and with difficulty: "DEAR, CALEB,--At last I can do something for you.

A friend of mine has a living in his gift just vacant, worth, I understand, from three to four hundred a year: pleasant neighbourhood--small parish.