"Well, sir, yes; it is ten. Thank heaven we all in this parish mostly dies natural deaths."
And surely, under the bleeding and salivating and starving régime, the grave had more than her due, and the doctor was the High Priest of Mors Palida, who brought to the grim goddess her victims. An old sexton at Wakefield parish church was also a headstone cutter. He was not very exact in his orthography, but he had the gift of rhyme, and could compose metrical epitaphs, that, indeed, sometimes, like Orlando's verses, either halted, or had too many feet to run on. One day he was sitting chipping out an inscription on a headstone, when the surgeon rode up. The doctor drew rein and looked at the work of the sexton.
"Halloo!" said he. "Peter Priestley, you've made a blot there," meaning a mis-spelling.
"Have I, doctor?" answered the clerk, "cover it over. I've covered over many blots o' yours." The doctor rode on without another word.
But the village surgeon had not in old days the skilled nurse as his assistant: and it is
