ver he liked, and make the house his "hoame,
like." So he came and fished, and partook of the hospitality of the
homely but plentiful table, and enjoyed himself as often as he pleased.
He was a most agreeable man, and knew how to talk. Understood a good
deal about agriculture and sheep breeding, and quite enjoyed a walk with
Mr. Bumpkin round the farm. This happened five or six times during the
autumn. He was reticent when Mr. Bumpkin mentioned the lawsuit, because
he knew so little about legal proceedings. Nor could Mr. Bumpkin "draw
him out" on any point. Nothing could be ascertained concerning him
except that he had a place in Yorkshire, and was in London on a visit;
that he had known Mr. Prigg for a good many years, and always "found him
the same." At last, the month of February came, and the long expected
letter from Mr. Prigg. Bumpkin and Joe were to be in London on the
following day, for it was expected they would be in the paper. What a
flutter of preparation there was at the farm! Bumpkin was eager, Mrs.
Bumpkin anxious. She had never liked the lawsuit, but had never once
murmured; now she seemed to have a presentiment which she was too wise to
express. And she went about her preparations for her husband's leaving
with all the courage she could command. It was, however, impossible
entirely to repress her feelings, and now and again as she was packing
the flannels and worsted stockings, a tear would force its way in spite
of all she could do.

Night came, and the fireside was as cosy as ever. But there was a sense
of sadness nevertheless. Tim seemed to understand that something was not
quite as it should be, for he was restless, and looked up plaintively in
his master's face, and went to Joe and put his head in his lap; then
turned away and stretched himself out on the hearth, winking his eyes at
the fire.

It is always a melancholy effort to "keep up the spirits" when the moment
of separation is at hand. One longs for the last shake of the hand and
the final good-bye. This was the case at Southwood Farm on this
memorable evening. Nothing in the room looked as usual. The pewter
plates on the shelf shone indeed, but it was like the smile of a winter
sun; it lacked the usual cheery warmth. Even the old clock seemed to
feel sad as he ticked out with melancholy monotony the parting moments;
and the wind, as it came in heavy gusts and howled round the old chimney,
seemed more melancholy than need