Thornton's?"

"I don't know, grandpa," said Fleda,--"I can't see--yes, I do see--yes,
they are, grandpa; I see the mark."

"I thought so!" said Mr. Ringgan bitterly; "I told Didenhover, only three
days ago, that if he didn't make up that fence the sheep would be out, or
Squire Thornton's would be in;--only three days ago!--Ah well!" said he,
shaking the reins to make the mare move on again,--"it's all of a
piece.--Every thing goes--I can't help it."

"Why do you keep him, grandpa, if he don't behave right?" Fleda ventured
to ask gently.

"'Cause I can't get rid of him, dear," Mr. Ringgan answered rather
shortly.

And till they got to the post-office he seemed in a disagreeable kind of
muse, which Fleda did not choose to break in upon. So the mile and a half
was driven in sober silence.

"Shall I get out and go in, grandpa?" said Fleda when he drew up before
the house.

"No, deary," said he in his usual kind tone; "you sit still. Holloa
there!--Good-day, Mr. Sampion--have you got any thing for me?" The man
disappeared and came out again.

"There's your paper, grandpa," said Fleda.