derly man, cries 'Whoa!' and,
standing close to the wall, points to each letter with the top of his
whip--where it bends--and so spells out 'Sale by Auction.' If he be a
young man he looks up at it as the heavy waggon rumbles by, turns his
back, and goes on with utter indifference.

The old men, working so many years on a single farm, and whose minds were
formed in days when a change of tenancy happened once in half a century,
have so identified themselves with the order of things in the parish that
it seems to personally affect them when a farmer leaves his place. But
young Hodge cares nothing about his master, or his fellow's master.
Whether they go or stay, prosperous or decaying, it matters nothing to
him. He takes good wages, and can jingle some small silver in his pocket
when he comes to the tavern a mile or so ahead; so 'gee-up' and let us get
there as rapidly as possible.

An hour later a farmer passes on horseback; his horse all too broad for
his short legs that stick out at the side and show some inches of stocking
between the bottom of his trousers and his boots. A sturdy, thick-set man,
with a wide face, brickdust colour, fringed with close-cut red whiskers,
and a chest so broad he seems compelled to wear his coat unbuttoned. He
pulls off his hat and wipes his partly bald head with a coloured
handkerchief, stares at the poster a few minutes, and walks his horse
away, evidently in deep thought. Two boys--cottagers' children--come home
from school; they look round to see that no one observes, and then throw
flints at the paper till the sound of footsteps alarms them.

Towards the evening a gentleman and lady, the first middle-aged, the
latter very young--father and daughter--approach, their horses seeming to
linger as they walk through the shallow stream, and the cool water
splashes above their fetlocks. The shooting season is near at hand,
Parliament has risen, and the landlords have returned home. Instead of the
Row, papa must take his darling a ride through the lanes, a little dusty
as the autumn comes on, and pauses to read the notice on the wall. It is
his neighbour's tenant, not his, but it comes home to him here. It is the
real thing--the fact--not the mere seeing it in the papers, or the warning
hints in the letters of his own steward. 'Papa,' is rather quiet for the
rest of the ride. Ever since he was a lad--how many years ago is that?--he
has shot with his neighbour's party over this farm, and rec