"Whose house do you want, master?" said the man, touching his hat. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. Springing to his feet in an ecstasy of terror, he stumbled, and had well nigh realized his worst apprehensions. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. That is not reasonable. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. Then, in a few years, he and Ruth might fare forth in comfort and security. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken.
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