'It be the same as I drink myself,' said the farmer, sharply, and
immediately sat down, struck the horse, and drove off.

His son and the labourer--who could hardly have been distinguished apart
so far as their dress went--stood gazing after him for a few minutes. They
then turned, and each went back to his work without a word.

The farmer drove on steadily homewards at the same jog-trot pace that had
been his wont these forty years. The house stood a considerable distance
back from the road: it was a gabled building of large size, and not
without interest. It was approached by a drive that crossed a green, where
some ducks were waddling about, and entered the front garden, which was
surrounded by a low wall. Within was a lawn and an ancient yew tree. The
porch was overgrown with ivy, and the trees that rose behind the grey
tiles of the roof set the old house in a frame of foliage. A fine old
English homestead, where any man might be proud to dwell. But the farmer
did not turn up the drive. He followed the road till he came to a gate
leading into the rickyard, and, there getting out of the gig, held the
gate open while the horse walked through. He never used the drive or the
front door, but always came in and went out at the back, through the
rickyard.

The front garden and lawn were kept in good order, but no one belonging to
the house ever frequented it. Had any stranger driven up to the front
door, he might have hammered away with the narrow knocker--there was no
bell--for half an hour before making any one hear, and then probably it
would have been by the accident of the servant going by the passage, and
not by dint of noise. The household lived in the back part of the house.
There was a parlour well furnished, sweet with flowers placed there fresh
daily, and with the odour of those in the garden, whose scent came in at