eement he
could not sell hay off the farm; but it had been permitted for years. When
they heard this they knew it was all over. The landlord, of course, put in
his claim; the bank theirs. In a few months the household furniture and
effects were sold, and the farmer and his aged wife stepped into the
highway in their shabby clothes.

He did not, however, starve; he passed to a cottage on the outskirts of
the village, and became bailiff for the tenant of that very arable farm to
work which years ago his father had borrowed the thousand pounds that
ultimately proved their ruin. He made a better bailiff than a farmer,
being at home with every detail of practice, but incapable of general
treatment. His wife does a little washing and charing; not much, for she
is old and feeble. No charity is offered to them--they have outlived old
friends--nor do they appeal for any. The people of the village do not heed
them, nor reflect upon the spectacle in their midst. They are merged and
lost in the vast multitude of the agricultural poor. Only two of their
children survive; but these, having early left the farm and gone into a
city, are fairly well-to-do. That, at least, is a comfort to the old folk.

It is, however, doubtful whether the old man, as he walks down the lane
with his hands behind his back and the dead leaves driven by the November
breeze rustling after, has much feeling of any kind left. Hard work and
adversity have probably deadened his finer senses. Else one would think he
could never endure to work as a servant upon that farm of all others, nor
to daily pass the scenes of his youth. For yonder, well in sight as he
turns a corner of the lane, stands the house where he dwelt so many, many
years; where the events of his life came slowly to pass; where he was
born; where his bride came home; where his children were born, and from
whose door he went forth penniless.

Seeing this every day, surely that old man, if he have but one spark of
feeling left, must drink the lees of poverty to the last final doubly
bitter dregs.

CHAPTER V

THE BORROWER AND THE GAMBLER

'Where do he get the money from, you?' 'It be curious, bean't it; I minds
when his father drove folks' pigs to market.' These remarks passed between
two old farmers, one standing on the sward by the roadside, and the other
talking to him over the low ledge, as a gentleman drove by in a
Whitechapel dog-cart, groom behind. The gentleman glanced at t