e're ower young, all o' ye.
It'll be seventy year an' more sin' she died, an' I wor only a lad at
t' time. That wor her rockin'-chair 'at they're puttin' on t' cart,
an' when I browt my missis 'ome, shoo hed it. First my mother,
neighbours, an' then t' missis; an' t' owd chair lasts 'em both out,
an' 'll last me out. I nivver thowt but it 'ud stand there aside o' t'
chimley till they carried me out o' t' door, feet for'most. T' old
chair 'll feel kind o' lonesome, neighbours, kind o' lonesome, in a
strange kit chin."

"Nivver 'eed, lad," said one of the older women; "ye'll be varry
comfortable down i' t' Clough."

"Aye, happen so," he replied, "but lonesome, neighbours, lonesome.
There isn't a crack i' t' beams but what looked friendly-like, for
we've grown old together; an' all t' furnitur' spake to me abaht old
times, for I niwer shifted 'em out o' their places. An' them two
chaney orniments o' t' chimley-piece, they wor allus comp'ny, too--Duke
o' Wellington an' Lord Nelson they are. My mother wor varry proud on
'em i' her time, an' t' missis wor just t' same; an' sin' shoo went
they've allus felt to be comp'ny like. I doubt they'll nivver look t'
same on another chimley-piece."

"It's a shame 'at 'e's turned ye out, Ted," said Susannah, "an' I 'ope
'e'll 'ave to suffer for it, I do."

"Aye, lass," he replied, "I could ha' liked well to ha' drawn my last
breath i' t' old cottage, I could, for sure. I think Barjona mud ha'
let me live on i' t' old 'ome. I shouldn't ha' troubled 'im so
long--not so long."

"Come inside, Ted," said Susannah, whose eyes were filling with tears,
"an' lie down while I get you a sup o' tea."

He appeared not to hear her, however, but stared fixedly at the flagged
footpath and muttered, as he slowly shook his head:

"I shouldn't ha' troubled 'im so long--not so long."

Somebody fetched him a stool, and he sat down outside the gate with his
back against the wall, whilst the women sympathised volubly, arms
akimbo.

It was very pathetic, but no words of comfort came to my lips, though
my heart ached for the silent old man who was leaving behind everything
that counted in life, and who was sure to feel keenly the loss of
familiar faces and friendly looks, even though he had not shown himself
neighbourly. I said something of the sort to Mother Hubbard, who had
now joined us, but she was doubtful.

"Well, love, I don't know. Ted has never shown much feeling. I have
known