It lay knotted and gnarled and swollen-veined upon her smooth palm, and with her other hand she stroked it.

His breath came weak and quick, and fear grew in his eyes.
"What is it, Clo ?" he said.

"What is't ?" "'Tis weakness," replied she, soothing him.

"Soon you will sleep." "Ay," he said, with a breath like a sob.

"'Tis over." His big body seemed to collapse, he shrank so in the bed-clothes.
"What day o' the year is it ?" he asked.
"The tenth of August," was her answer.
"Sixty-nine years from this day was I born," he said, "and now 'tis done." "Nay," said she--"nay--God grant--" "Ay," he said, "done.