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“Ay, Bob, I see thee,” he said; “there, down, down!” as the dog, springing up, began to lick his face. “We can’t help it, boy; we’re to be chucked out, thee and I. You be getting old, too, an’ ’tis a sin to be old i’ these times. Nobody wants us, Bob. If some folks had their will you an’ me ’ud be knocked on the head, Bob; an’ I do ’low it ’ud be the best way. I could a’most wish as somebody ’ud come up without my knowing it an’ jest—settle me. Livin’s poor work when folk be wishin’ to be rid on ye.”

Bob slid on to the floor again and laid his old white muzzle on the worn corduroy knee; and Abel continued to stroke his head, but without speaking, until at last the sympathetic eyes closed, and the dog dozed, still pressing close to him. Then Abel suffered his hand to drop and sat as before, staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

Saturday came, one of those mild, south country days when winter seems to give place to spring; the sky was blue, thrushes were singing; the air was soft and fragrant, almost as with the spicy smell of mounting sap and growing herbage. Farmer Joyce toiled up the hill again with his smock frock thrown open, and his hat on the back of his head. His face, too, was full of a mild radiance as he paused within the gate of the enclosure.