attempt to seat himself in the dust; then, just as he had
recovered from that shock, his front knees would collapse, and Job
would plunge madly forward on his venerable nose.

But, after all, they had many a pleasant drive up and down the
country roads, where the old horse plodded onwards, apparently
enjoying the scenery as much as his mistress did, now stopping to
graze by the roadside, now suddenly turning aside and, before his
driver was aware of his intention, landing her in the dooryard of
some farmhouse where the doctor had visited a patient years
before. For Job had a retentive memory, and was never known to
forget a road or a house where he had once been. During the last
of the time that the doctor had driven him, he had lent him to do
occasional service at funerals, where Job was never known to
disgrace himself by breaking into an indecorous trot. Something in
the ceremony of these melancholy journeys had struck Job's fancy
and impressed the circumstances on his memory to such an extent
that, ever after, he was reluctant to pass the cemetery gate, but
tugged hard at the lines to show his desire to enter. It was not
so bad when Mrs. Adams and Polly were by themselves; but Mrs.
Adams often invited some convalescing patient of the doctor to go
for a quiet little drive, and it was mortifying to have Job,
taking advantage of the moment when his mistress was deep in
conversation, stalk solemnly under the arching gateway and bring
his invalid passenger to a halt beside some new-made grave. There
seemed to be no apology that could fitly meet the occasion and do
away with the gloomy suggestiveness of the situation.

Aunt Jane rarely had time to drive with Job, for an ordinarily
fast walker could pass him by; but Polly and her mother enjoyed