“Jim,—­which is Jim?” asked Lionel, turning his eyes on the group of children, supposing one must be meant.

“He ain’t here, sir,” cried the woman.  “It’s the one with the black hair, and he was six year old yesterday.  He’s gone to Farmer Johnson’s to take care o’ the pigs in the field.  He’s to get a shilling a week.”

Lionel moved from his position.  “Grind,” he said, “don’t you think it would be better if you gave yourself complete rest, not attempting to go out to work until you are stronger?”

“I couldn’t afford it, sir.  And as to its being better for me, I don’t see that.  If I can work, sir, I’m better at work.  I know it tires me, but I believe I get stronger the sooner for it.  Mr. Jan, he says to me, says he, ’Don’t lie by never, Grind, unless you be obliged to it; it only rusts the limbs.’  And he ain’t far out, sir.  Folks gets more harm from idleness nor they do from work.”

“Well, good-day, Grind,” said Lionel, “and I heartily hope you’ll soon be on your legs again.  Lady Verner shall send you something more nourishing than bread, while you are still suffering.”

“Thank ye kindly, sir,” replied Grind.  “My humble duty to my lady.”

Lionel went out.  “What a lesson for me!” he involuntarily exclaimed.  “This poor half-starved man struggling patiently onward through his sickness; while I, who had every luxury about me, spent my time in repining.  What a lesson!  Heaven help me to take it to my heart!”

He lifted his hat as he spoke, his feeling at the moment full of reverence; and went on to Frost’s.  “Where’s Robin?” he asked of the wife.

“He’s in the back room, sir,” was the answer.  “He’s getting better fast.  The old father, he have gone out a bit, a-warming of himself in the sun.”

She opened the door of a small back room as she spoke; but it proved to be empty.  Robin was discerned in the garden, sitting on a bench; possibly to give himself a warming in the sun—­as Mrs. Frost expressed it.  He sat in a still attitude, his arms folded, his head bowed.  Since the miserable occurrence touching Rachel, Robin Frost was a fearfully changed man; never, from the hour that the coroner’s inquest was held and certain evidence had come out, had he been seen to smile.  He had now been ill with ague, in the same way as Grind.  Hearing the approach of footsteps, he turned his head, and rose when he saw it was Lionel.

“Well, Robin, how fares it?  You are better, I hear.  Sit yourself down; you are not strong enough to stand.  What an enemy this low fever is!  I wish we could root it out!”

“Many might be all the healthier for it, sir, if it could be done,” was Robin’s answer, spoken indifferently—­as he nearly always spoke now.  “As for me, I’m not far off being well again.”

“They said in the village you were going to die, Robin, did they not?” continued Lionel.  “You have cheated them, you see.”