"I pass the post-office--I'll put it in," said he to the weeping servant; "and just give me that scrap of paper." So he wrote on the scrap, "P.

S.He died this morning at half-past twelve, without pain .-- M.

J.;" and not taking the trouble to break the seal, thrust the final bulletin into the folds of the letter, which he then carefully placed in his vast pocket, and safely transferred to the post.
And that was all that the jovial and happy man, to whom the letter was addressed, ever heard of the last days of his college friend.
The living, vacant by the death of Caleb Price, was not so valuable as to plague the patron with many applications.

It continued vacant nearly the whole of the six months prescribed by law.

And the desolate parsonage was committed to the charge of one of the villagers, who had occasionally assisted Caleb in the care of his little garden.
The villager, his wife, and half-a-dozen noisy, ragged children, took possession of the quiet bachelor's abode.