e.

"Well, now, how is it 'ard on them?" asked the farmer. "Talkin' quite
straight, where does t' 'ardship come in?"

"Well, mother doesn't cry round _my_ neck, an' stroke my hands, an'
make a big fuss," replied the girl, "an' it's hard to see her thinkin'
a deal more o' one 'at's done her so much wrong."

"Now you know better, Jane. Your mother thinks no more o' your Joe
than she does o' you, only, as you say, she makes more fuss of him 'cos
he's come round. It 'ud 'a been just t' same supposin' he'd been ill
for ten year an' then got better. You'd ha' made a fuss over 'im then
as well as your mother, an' you wouldn't ha' thought 'at your mother
loved 'im more than you, if she did fuss over 'im a bit. Now you just
look at it i' this way: Joe's been mad--clean daft--but he's come to
hisself, an' it's 'meet to make merry an' be glad.'"

Jane is not at all a bad sort. She gave a little laugh as she said:

"Eh, Reuben! I never heard such a man for talkin'. However, I daresay
you're right, an' my bark's worse than my bite, anyway. I was just
feelin' full up when I came out, but I'm better now. I'll see if I can
manage not to be jealous, for we shan't have 'im long. He's in a hurry
to be back to his precious wife, an' he wants mother an' me to go with
him, but mother says she'll have her bones laid aside father's, so
he'll have to go by himself."

I took the photographs this morning, and was pleased to find that the
reconciliation between brother and sister was complete. In the
afternoon I went into the graveyard and found some beautiful flowers on
Farmer Brown's grave, and a man was taking measurements for a stone.
He told me that there was to be a curious inscription following the
usual particulars, and fumbling in his pocket he drew forth a piece of
paper on which I read these words:

"A foolish son is a grief to his father."

"A good man leaveth an inheritance to his children's children."

CHAPTER XXVI

THE CYNIC BRINGS NEWS OF GINTY

It is the middle of October, and autumn is manifested on every side.
It makes me rather sad, for bound up with these marvellous sunset tints
which ravish the eye there is decay and death. The woods are carpeted
in russet and gold; the green of the fields is dull and faded; every
breath of wind helps to strip the trees a little barer; and as though
Nature could not, unaided, work destruction fast enough, the hand of
man is stretched forth to strip the glowin