that a man's best friend is one of his own blood."

They rose and departed. John trotted away through Sandypark, having
first made Martin promise to sup with him that night, and the pedestrian
proceeded by the nearest road to Rushford Bridge.

Chris he did not see, but it happened that Mr. Lyddon met him just
outside Monks Barton, and though Martin desired no such thing at the
time, nothing would please the miller but that his friend should return
to the farm for some conversation.

"Home again, an' come to glasses, tu! Well, they clear the sight, an' we
must all wear 'em sooner or late. 'T is a longful time since I seed 'e,
to be sure."

"All well, I hope?"

"Nothing to grumble at. Billy an' me go down the hill as gradual an'
easy as any man 's a right to expect. But he's gettin' so bald as a
coot; an' now the shape of his head comes to be knawed, theer 's
wonnerful bumps 'pon it. Then your brother's all for sport an' war. A
Justice of the Peace they've made un, tu. He's got his volunteer chaps
to a smart pitch, theer's no gainsaying. A gert man for wild diversions
he is. Gwaine coursin' wi' long-dogs come winter, they tell me."

"And how are Phoebe and her husband?"

"A little under the weather just now; but I'm watchin' 'em unbeknawnst.
Theer's a glimmer of hope in the dark if you'll believe it, for Will
ackshally comed to me esster-night to ax my advice--_my_ advice--on a
matter of stock! What do 'e think of that?"

"He was fighting a losing battle in a manly sort of way it seemed to me
when last I saw him."

"So he was, and is. I give him eighteen month or thereabout--then'll
come the end of it."

"The 'end'! What end? You won't let them starve? Your daughter and the
little children?"

"You mind your awn business, Martin," said Mr. Lyddon, with nods and
winks. "No, they ban't gwaine to starve, but my readin' of Will's
carater has got to be worked out. Tribulation's what he needs to sweeten
him, same as winter sweetens sloes; an' 't is tribulation I mean him to
have. If Phoebe's self caan't change me or hurry me 't is odds you
won't. Theer's a darter for 'e! My Phoebe. She'll often put in a whole
week along o' me still. You mind this: if it's grawn true an' thrawn
true from the plantin', a darter's love for a faither lasts longer 'n
any mortal love at all as I can hear tell of. It don't wear out wi'
marriage, neither, as I've found, thank God. Phoebe rises above auld age
and the ugliness an' weakness