"Oh, very well. He made no objection; said he had not the right to
make any in my case. But he looked so upset for a moment, so
deserted--I suppose he was thinking how his own son had failed him,
and that now his beneficiary was turning from him--that I wavered. But
at that he was the same haughty, immovable man as ever, and I
remembered that each of us must live his own life; and so 'tis
settled."

"Well," said I, with a little of envy at his prospect, and much of
sorrow at losing him, and some wonder about another matter, "I'm glad
for your sake, though you may imagine how I'll miss you. But how can
you go yet? 'Tis like leaving the field to me--as to _her_, you know."
I motioned with my head toward the Faringfield house.

"Why," he replied, as we both sat down on the wooden bench, "as I
shall be gone years when I do go, Mr. Faringfield stipulated only that
I should remain with him here another year; and I was mighty glad he
did, or I should have had to make that offer. 'Twasn't that I was
anxious to be off so soon, that made me tell him I was going; 'twas
that in harbouring the intention, while he still relied upon my
remaining always with him, I seemed to be guilty of a kind of
treachery. As for--_her_, if she gives no indication within a year,
especially when she knows I'm going, why, 'twill be high time to leave
the field to you, I think."

"She doesn't know yet?"

"No; I came first to you. Her father isn't home yet."

"Well, Phil, there's little for me to say. You know what my feelings