Sunday evening, put his check-book in
his pocket very early next morning and rode over the heath to the
market town. There he saw Bates' landlord, readily obtained leave to
withdraw the notice, cleared off the arrears, and paid rent for a year
in advance. Then he rode straight to Otterford Mill.

"Good morning, William. Pray come in. But will your horse stand quiet
there?"

"Oh, yes, sir. He'll stand quiet enough. Only too glad of the chance
to stand. I keep him moving, you know."

"Don't he ever get jerking at the rein, and break his bridle?"

"If he did he wouldn't run away. He'd be too ashamed of himself for
what he'd done."

"Then step inside, William," said Mr. Bates once more.

He ushered Dale into a bare, sad-looking room; and the whole cottage
smelled of nakedness, famine, misery.

"Now, my dear old friend," said Dale cheerily, "what's all this
whispering that reaches my ears _in re_ you thinking of changing your
quarters and leaving us?"

"It's the truth, William. I can't afford these premises any longer."

"Oh, come, we can't have that. We haven't so many friends that we can
put up with losing the one we value most of all."

Then he told Mr. Bates what he had done at Manninglea.

The old man frowned, flushed, and began to tremble.

"You shouldn't 'a' done that, William. It was a liberty. I must write
and say my notice holds good."

Then there was a brief but most painful conversation, Dale nearly
shedding tears while he pleaded to be allowed on this one occasion to
act as banker, and Bates resolutely refusing help, refusing even to
admit how much help was needed.

"William," he said obdurately, "I recognize your kind intention--but
you've made a mistake. You shouldn't have done it, without a word to
me. I can only repeat, it was a liberty."

Dale of course apologized, but went on pleading. It was all no use.
Obviously Mr. Bates' pride had been wounded to the quick. He was
white, shaky, so old, so feeble, and yet firm as a rock. Never till
now had he spoken to Dale in such tones of stiff reproof.

"William, we'll say no more. I have paid my way all my days, and at my
present age it's a bit too late to start differently."

His last words were: "I shall write next post to confirm the notice."

And he did so.

Then the tale ran round that Mr. Bates was going to the workhouse.
People declared that he had ceded all his furniture to the landlord,
who could now sell it quietly and advantageousl