He has no servant--cooks for himself.

Ever try it, Squire ?" "I--often.

But what a life!" The stout little clergyman lay on a carved four-post bedstead of old mahogany, which seemed to hint of better days.

The ragged patch-work quilt over him told too of busy woman-hands long dead.

The windows were closed, the air was sick (as McGregor said later), and there was the indescribable composite odour which only the sick chamber of poverty knows.