jests than all the long faces about me, saving only the presence of your
mother;" and with his characteristic gallantry, my uncle turned
courteously to her.

"Dear Sir William!" said she, "it is time you should take your draught;
and then would it not be better that you should see the chaplain? he
waits without."

"Ods fish," said my uncle, turning again to me, "'tis the way with them
all: when the body is past hope comes the physician, and when the soul
is past mending comes the priest. No, Madam, no, 'tis too late for
either.--Thank ye, Morton, thank ye" (as I started up--took the draught
from my mother's hand, and besought him to drink it), "'tis of no use;
but if it pleases thee, I must,"--and he drank the medicine.

My mother rose, and walked towards the door: it was ajar; and, as my eye
followed her figure, I perceived, through the opening, the black garb of
the chaplain.

"Not yet," said she, quietly; "wait." And then gliding away, seated
herself by the window in silence, and told her beads.

My uncle continued: "They have been at me, Morton, as if I had been a
pagan; and I believe, in their hearts, they are not a little scandalized
that I don't try to win the next world by trembling like an ague. Faith
now, I never could believe that Heaven was so partial to cowards; nor
can I think, Morton, that Salvation is like a soldier's muster-roll, and
that we may play the devil between hours, so that, at the last moment,
we whip in, and answer to our names. Ods fish, Morton, I could tell
thee a tale of that; but 'tis a long one, and we have not time now.