The old man—­for he was now growing old—­put his hands behind his back and said nothing, but went on with his usual routine of work.  Whether he had become dulled and deadened and cared nothing, whether hope was extinct, or he could not wrench himself from the old place, he said nothing.  Even then some further time elapsed—­so slow is the farmer’s fall that he might almost be excused for thinking that it would never come.  But now came the news that the old uncle who had ‘backed’ him at the bank had been found dead in bed of sheer old age.  Then the long-kept secret came out at last.  The dead man’s executors claimed the money advanced so many, many years ago.

This discovery finished it.  The neighbours soon had food for gossip in the fact that a load of hay which he had sold was met in the road by the landlord’s agent and turned back.  By the strict letter of his agreement he could not sell hay off the farm; but it had been permitted for years.  When they heard this they knew it was all over.  The landlord, of course, put in his claim; the bank theirs.  In a few months the household furniture and effects were sold, and the farmer and his aged wife stepped into the highway in their shabby clothes.

He did not, however, starve; he passed to a cottage on the outskirts of the village, and became bailiff for the tenant of that very arable farm to work which years ago his father had borrowed the thousand pounds that ultimately proved their ruin.  He made a better bailiff than a farmer, being at home with every detail of practice, but incapable of general treatment.  His wife does a little washing and charing; not much, for she is old and feeble.  No charity is offered to them—­they have outlived old friends—­nor do they appeal for any.  The people of the village do not heed them, nor reflect upon the spectacle in their midst.  They are merged and lost in the vast multitude of the agricultural poor.  Only two of their children survive; but these, having early left the farm and gone into a city, are fairly well-to-do.  That, at least, is a comfort to the old folk.

It is, however, doubtful whether the old man, as he walks down the lane with his hands behind his back and the dead leaves driven by the November breeze rustling after, has much feeling of any kind left.  Hard work and adversity have probably deadened his finer senses.  Else one would think he could never endure to work as a servant upon that farm of all others, nor to daily pass the scenes of his youth.  For yonder, well in sight as he turns a corner of the lane, stands the house where he dwelt so many, many years; where the events of his life came slowly to pass; where he was born; where his bride came home; where his children were born, and from whose door he went forth penniless.

Seeing this every day, surely that old man, if he have but one spark of feeling left, must drink the lees of poverty to the last final doubly bitter dregs.