The knell was tolling. Bettesworth explained, “Poor old Edmund's gone, then.”

“What, Edmund Baxter?”

“Ah, he died last night. I see old David Harris t'other day, an' he told me 'twa'n't possible for 'n to last. He'd bin round there—Edmund sent for 'n 'cause 'twas he's birthday, an' he sent for 'n to come an' 'elp keep it. Twa'n't possible for 'n ever to git up no more: he could see that, he said. Ye see, they'd always been mates together, as ye may say. They was about the same age.”

“How old was he?”

“Seventy-three. And that's what David is. He's in his seventy-third year. He carries it well, don't he? But there, he en't never done no hard work, as ye may say, not to wear hisself out same as Edmund.”

“It makes a difference,” I assented.

“No mistake. Now Edmund ye see he was always jest 't other way. Always a good 'n for work, was Edmund. He used always to get up Sundays jest same as week-days; it didn't make no difference—about four or five o'clock he was up, feedin' and workin'.” (I suppose that he was feeding his horse and pigs.) “But there, that was his way: he was reg'lar. He had his time for gettin' up an' for gwine to bed too, an' he never altered.