The door-bell rang. "That must be Pelloquin," he said. "Bring him in here, and leave us alone. We are going to talk things over and set the day. Go!"

Clinging fast to one another, the two dear creatures went their way. "Come, my daughter," said Thérèson. "Let us

Les Annales.

lock ourselves into my chamber where we can cry in peace. Our misfortunes are just beginning, or at least yours are. As for me, I can bear no more. I have lived too long. I am perfectly certain that the house is mortgaged." "I shall die an old maid," said Adèle to herself as Pelloquin came in.

Farmer Preston walked down the muddy little lane which led to his marshes, his head bowed in deep thought. He did not pick his way, but splashed through the slush and pools of water, leaning heavily on his thick ash stick. At the end of the lane he undid a gate and turned across the marsh in the direction of the big black drainage-mill, stopping from time to time to look at the horses and colts which were quietly cropping the grass. Then, taking off his hat, he rattled the head of his stick inside it, making the animals start off in a mad scamper to the far side of the marsh, where they halted all together, heads erect, front feet pawing the ground, snorting defiance, ere they galloped off again, throwing up large clods of turf as they wheeled round and rushed past the farmer.

"Yer a lot o' beauties," he muttered as he walked across the plank which bridged the dyke, out of which the mill was pumping water. A stiff breeze was blowing, and the sails of the mill cut through the air with a musical hum, creaking and groaning as the wind, which came in sudden gusts, caused the pace to increase. The big wheel at the side of the mill was going plug, plug, plug, plug, as it threw into the river gallons of green

water, which foamed and hissed as it poured forth. The mill had been pumping since early morning, and the dike which fed it was nearly empty, and was now giving off that fresh scent of weeds which so closely resembles the smell of cucumber and newly caught fish. As Farmer Preston approached the mill, a man, somewhat past middle age, came out of the door.

"Gude arternoon, sir," he remarked. "Yer ha' been alooken' at th' colts; lor, how they be adoin'; sound every one on 'em, and as nice a lot as yer could come across here, or in any parish for miles round. And th' owd hosses, they ha' done pretty tid'ly since harvest, getten' right fat; yer'll ha' a rare sale, sir."

"Aye, Nockolds, they bain't doin' so badly, still they bain't fat enow for my liking. Can't have 'em tew fat for a Michaelmas sale. I shall take 'em up inter stalls this week and shove some corn inter 'em."

"Well, sir, I calls 'em a proper lot; all I know is we shan't ha' sich a lot of hosses on th' farm come next Michaelmas, 'tain't so likely; th' new tenant 'on't keep th' class o' mare like yer ha’ done ter get th' foals out on. I shall miss 'em, sir; I often cast my eyes over th' beauties when I ha' got a few minutes ter spare and my mill be a

runnen' same as she be now. I ha' often helped one o' th' foals out o' deke when they ha' blundered in. Yer'd ha' lost sev'ral, sir, if my mill hadn't been so gain for me ter keep an eye on 'em. But, there," the man went on, changing his tone to one of sadness, "everything'll be different when yer gone. Whatever can th' landlord be athinken' on, letten' yer give up cos o' spenden' a bit o' money on repairs, I can't fare ter think. That be past my understanden', that be."

Farmer Preston smiled sadly. "There'll be a lot o' changes, Nockolds, daresay," he said.

"Well, all I hopes be that th' new master 'on't interfere along o' me, and my trawshen" engine, and my mill," went on Nockolds. "She's a engine as ain't goin' ter be messed up with a lot o' strange hands; as long as he let me ha' my reg'lar crew she'l go all right. She hain't had narthen' laid out on her since she had a new fire-box eight year ago, 'cept the' cost o' a bit o' paint which I ha' daubed on her. Shouldn't like ter see her get inter strange hands. Still, I hain't got no cause ter fret, cos there bain't no one on this here farm as can work her; don't s'pose as how he'll bring one along o' him?"

Farmer Preston was visibly embarrassed. He kept digging his ash stick into the soft ground as he listened to Nockolds' conversation, making little holes in the turf, which filled with water as he pulled the stick out with a jerk.

"S'pose I shall ha' ter do yer trawshen?" the man continued. "That'll be th' last o' yer and yars," and his eyes filled with tears.

"Thank ye, kindly, sir," and Nockolds touched his hat. "Knowed yer'd make that all right for me. I'll look arter yar corn for yer, sir; I 'on't trawsh if they wants straw ever so bad 'less I gets word from yer that I ha' got ter knock it out."

"Hold yer hard and just listen ter what I ha' ter say," interrupted the farmer. "Let me see, I wor sayen' as how I spoke for yer. Well, Mr. Mackenzie, he say ter me as how he bain't goin' ter dew his own trawshen', leastways he ain't goin' ter keep a engine, so he says he shan't require yar sarvices. I be wery, wery sorry, Nockolds," and Preston paused as he noted the look of blank astonishment which spread over the engineman's face. "I spoke up for yer, I did."

"Spoke up for me, did yer? Well, I ha' been engineman along o' yer for nigh on twenty year and never robbed yer of an oat, and yer spoke up for me! Daresay, but yer must make him ha' me," said the man defiantly.

"That's more nor I can dew, Nockolds, and yer knows it."

"Blast me, if he ain't goin' ter dew his trawshen' how be he agoen' on about th' grinden'?"

"Don't think he be goin' ter grind much. Yer see, Nockolds, he ain't goen' ter keep th' stock or th' hosses I ha' done, leastways that's what I gather. I s'pose when he ha' a trawsh he'll arrange ter cut enow chaff ter last him for a time and dew th' rest by hand."

"Then what's goin' ter become o' my engine?" said Nockolds sullenly.

"She'll ha' ter go inter sale with th' rest," Preston answered. "I told th' auctioneers yesterday ter put her inter bills."

"Did yer?" said Nockolds, seating himself on the rail by the mill door. "Did yer? Arter twenty year honest sarvice it ha' come to this-my engine ter be put up ter auction for anyone as

likes ter buy and ter run as they thinks proper. Well, I'll be gormed! Why, sir, me and my missus wor asayen' we ha' got ter go through somethen' parten' from yer, but now they be agoin' to take my engine away, be they, blast." The man spoke with an unsteady voice. "People shouldn't imitate haven' land if they don't study th' rights o' those what ha' been brought up on it," he went on. "Still, they can't take my mill away from me," and Nockolds gazed up at the whirling sails. "She belong ter th' Commissioners, and they 'on't ha' strangers amessen' her about. They know different ter that; they know she be a mill wery apt ter get onter gripe and barn herself down if she bain't tended on proper. They 'on't tarn me off as if I wor a bit o' casualty."

"Still," replied the farmer, "yer know as well as I dew, Nockolds, yer can't keep yar family on what th' Commissioners allow yer for looken' arter this one mill, and p'raps not haven' ter pump more nor once a month. Besides"-and Preston hesitated-"besides-well-I ha' better out with itMr. Mackenzie, he say he must ha' yer cottage."

This piece of information seemed to stagger the engineman. He sat silent for a moment, gazing over the marshes and river with eyes that did not see, then he broke out furiously: "Ha' my cottage; th' cottage my father and mother brought their family up in; th' cottage I wor born in; th' cottage my missus ha' had eight children in; and we ha' been in twenty year and more. Dew yer tell him he'll ha' ter reckon along o' Jim Nockolds afore he ha' it. I'll ha' the law on him, if there be any law for us poor folk. How can I let him ha' th' cottage? How can I move my Mary, with her poor leg and all? She ha' been bedridden ever since she wor a mite o' a child; why, 'twould be th' kill on her ter move her. I tells

yer, master, I ain't agoin', so there 'tis," and the man brought his fist down on the rail on which he was sitting with such force that it cracked.

"Well, I ha' told yer now," said the farmer harshly. "Yer knows I sent yer a paper with th' rest on 'em six months ago ter tell yer yer'd all ha' ter give up yar cottages unless th' new tenant took yer on, and yer'll ha' ter go, Nockolds, so there's no use ataken' on; 'tain't a question o' law. I ha' spoke for yer, and I will agen; I'll dew my best ter get yer a place along o' as gude a master as I ha' been. 'Tain't no use maken' a din about it. Other people ha' had bedridden folk about 'em and ha' moved 'em; yer'll ha' ter dew th' same. I'm wonnerful sorry for yer and for yer poor critter o' a gal; I'm wonnerful sorry for myself that I ha' got ter go; but these here changes will come whether we likes 'em or no."

"Aye, master, but yer goes cos yer chooses, we goes cos we must; there be a sight o' difference," said Nockolds with intense bitterness. Preston did not answer but stepped across the plank bridge and made his way over the marshes to the gate leading into the lane.

The engineman sat staring at the farmer till he was lost to sight. Then he passed his black, oily hand over his forehead and began muttering: "This come o' twenty year honest sarvice; this come o' lookin' arter yar engine and yar mill as if they wor yar own children. Many's th' time my missus ha' mobbed me for worken' over-time o' nights for narthen when I ha' been painting and triculaten' my engine up, and now they be agoin' ter take and sell her without so much as arsten' o' my leave; putting someone else inter mill what don't know her ways, letten' her get on th' gripe and barnen' o' herself down as likely as not. And then atarnen' me and mine out o' my house;

shot out as if we wor muck; poor Mary, tew, who ha' been a-layen' in th' front-room all these years, just able ter tend her flowers on th' winder-sill from her bed; my poor gal, who through all her sufferin' ha' allus kept a cheerful face and never offered no complaint ter th' Almighty or narthen'. Well! I ha' had my ups and downs, but never narthen' like this; it dew fare hard ter me ter ha' ter tell 'em when I goes home ter tea. Another place as gude as this be!" went on Nockolds, sorrow giving place to anger, "Daresay-I be a able-bodied man; I ha' allus done for 'em up ter now, s'pose I can ha' another place. That bain't th' question, 'tis th' tarnen' o' me and mine out what stick in my gullet. Ain't there no law for such as us? That 'ud be different if I worn't a poor man with a big fam❜ly. I be fairly crazed about this job, I be. Ah, yer'll dew now," he said as he stopped the mill. "Yer ha' done yer bit, and fare ter me I ha' done mine."

On the table in the front room of Nockold's cottage a clean white cloth was spread, and the glass lamp standing in the centre lit up the well-polished stone mugs of the three lads seated at the board. In front of the boys was placed a blue jug invitingly full of rich milk, a large home-made loaf, and a plate of dripping, and before the father's vacant place stood a small piece of pickled pork and a pat of butter. Mrs. Nockolds was putting sugar into the children's mugs, a proceeding on her part which tended to economy.

Mary, the bedridden girl, lay on her bed, propped up by two or three pillows, holding in her arms the year-old baby, whilst her mother served the tea to the rest of the family. Mary was about eighteen years of age, and possessed the delicate prettiness often found on the faces of those who pass their lives in resigned suffering.

A fall had brought on hip-disease when she was between two and three years old, and she was now a helpless cripple, suffering much pain at times, yet bright and cheerful, ever more ready to sympathize with the troubles of others than to call attention to her own sad condition.

Her bed was placed in front of the diamond-paned window, and on the long, wide sill were arranged her pots of flowers-fuchsias, geraniums, pelargoniums, musk, and a straggling crimson China rose. Most of the geraniums were in full bloom, and all the flowers were growing as only cottage window-plants do grow. These were Mary's treasures, watered from the little red can with the long spout which her father had given her, looked at and gone over every morning, and all dead or yellow leaves and withering blooms carefully removed. Mary's flowers were the admiration of the village street-indeed, on the most dismal day the window with its wreath of bloom made a note of color which could not fail to attract the attention of the passers-by.

"Now then, Albert, don't yer help yarself ter all th' dripping on th' plate; dew yer try and larn as there is others besides yarself whose maws want fillen"," said Mrs. Nockolds to the eldest boy in a tone of remonstrance. At this moment a hand was heard on the backkitchen door and Mary sat the baby up on her knee and cried, "Listen, baby, here come dadder." The child squirmed its little arms round and began to laugh and crow.

"Ah, dirty boy!" said Mary as she wiped the slobber from his chin. "Messen' yerself up like that. How can dadder kiss his boy if he be all wet and nasty?"

"Jim," shouted Mrs. Nockolds, "there be some hot water in th' bowl for yer ter rinse yar hands in, and dew yer pull off them crotch butes-I ha'

scrubbed th' back'us floor t'arternoon, and th' bricks be right roser."

Nockolds did not give his usual cheery answer, and as no reply was made to his wife's question as to what 'sort of a night it was, Mrs. Nockolds put down the tea-pot and exclaimed:

"Why, whatever be th' matter o' Father ter-night; ha' yer lost yer tongue, Jim?" but stopped in amazement as she noticed the hopeless look on her husband's face as he stepped in his stockinged feet into the room. The children put down their slices of bread and gazed open-mouthed at their father, who threw himself into his chair and rested his head in his hands. "Be yer onwell, Jim; what ha' happened ter yer?" asked his wife anxiously.

"I don't want narthen' to eat," said Nockolds, pushing away the plate his wife had set before him. "Give us a dish o' tea, I ha' got my gut full a'ready."

Presently he repeated the conversation he had had with Farmer Preston, and when he came to the leaving of the old home a wail went up from all the family.

"Whatever we ha' got ter dew fair beat me, arter twenty years' sarvice, tew. And yer," turning to his wife, "a-doin' o' th' dairy and a-rearen' o' th' fowls and then ter be tarned out like rubbidge. And poor Mary, how are we to move sich as her, I'd like ter know, and all her pretty gays in th' winder; we'll never get another housen with a winder like that for her, 'tain't likely; there ain't one narthen' like it in this parish, nor in no other as I knows on. And then my engine," the man went on with increasing bitterness, "I ha' crazed myself over looken' arter her, and keepen' on her bright and clean as a golden watch. And now she be a-goin' inter strange hands ter be let down and rust herself up; but, there, that don't fret me SO

much as how we can move our poor Mary."

"Father," said the girl as she heard her name, "don't yer take on about me. I know 'tis hard on yer and Mother ter leave th' cottage, but," and here the voice faltered, "I can go wheresoever we ha' ter go along o' th' furniture in th' wagon, and, maybe, if there bain't a winder-sill yer can put up a wide shelf for th' plants agen th' winder. It be a main bad job, sartenly, but, there, we ha' ter go trew with it."

"Ah, it be all wery well fer yer ter lay there a-praten' and arrangen' matters, Mary, when me and Mother be so upset-like," said Nockolds harshly. Mrs. Nockolds, with her head in her apron, was sobbing loudly. "Just as if that wor as easy as kiss yer hand ter get another place and find a house sich as yar mother ha' been 'customed tew. Cheerful," he went on, in answer to a remark of Mary's, "I don't see how yer can imitate o' bein' cheerful. Fare to me this be a calamity; I 'on't wote no more for them Conservatives if this be th' law for us poor folk, shot out o' housen when we never owed a penny o' rent and all. Here, Mother, I can't sit at home ternight, dew yer get me my highlows," and slipping on his boots the engineman took up his hat and went up the street.

When Mrs. Nockolds returned from putting the children to bed she noticed that her daughter's cheeks were wet with tears. The mother bent down and kissed the invalid girl. "Don't yer take ter heart what yer father ha' said, my gal," she said gently. "He be a bit upset ter-night, and so be I, but he don't mean ter be onkind ter yer, Mary."

Mary pressed her mother's hand. "I know, Mother," she answered. "It wor o' him I wor thinken'. I never wor no help, and now, when we ha' ter move out o' the owd house I fare ter be a wus ill-convenience ter yer