is old and feeble. No charity is offered to them--they have outlived old
friends--nor do they appeal for any. The people of the village do not heed
them, nor reflect upon the spectacle in their midst. They are merged and
lost in the vast multitude of the agricultural poor. Only two of their
children survive; but these, having early left the farm and gone into a
city, are fairly well-to-do. That, at least, is a comfort to the old folk.

It is, however, doubtful whether the old man, as he walks down the lane
with his hands behind his back and the dead leaves driven by the November
breeze rustling after, has much feeling of any kind left. Hard work and
adversity have probably deadened his finer senses. Else one would think he
could never endure to work as a servant upon that farm of all others, nor
to daily pass the scenes of his youth. For yonder, well in sight as he
turns a corner of the lane, stands the house where he dwelt so many, many
years; where the events of his life came slowly to pass; where he was
born; where his bride came home; where his children were born, and from
whose door he went forth penniless.

Seeing this every day, surely that old man, if he have but one spark of
feeling left, must drink the lees of poverty to the last final doubly
bitter dregs.





CHAPTER V