“Well, sir, my old woman be wonderful with the cookin’, and she did do ’em up in a-many different ways. ’E-es, we did use to have a rabbit for dinner four days out of seven.” “Did you indeed?” returned his former master, much interested in these revelations. “Do you suppose, John, the other men had hundreds of rabbits every year, too?” “Well, sir, it be a matter o’ taste. Some folks doesn’t fancy rabbit; but, of course, they can take so many as they do want.” “Of course,” agreed the Squire. “’E-es; keepers takes rabbits same as gardeners helps theirselves to cabbages. I knowed you’d never begrudge me that there little un.” “No, to be sure; but we mustn’t be too hard on Jim. Jim was doing what he thought to be his duty. Now, you know, no matter how many rabbits a keeper may take for himself, he is not supposed to allow other people to take any.” “Nay, sir, nay; I wouldn’t expect it--not other folks. But I d’ ’low it be different wi’ I, what was head over en for so many year. He didn’t ought to ha’ gone and insulted of I.” “No, no, of course not; but then, you see, you had vexed him. He was too angry to discriminate between poaching and--just helping yourself.” “And t’other chap, ’ee telled I I was trespassin’!” resumed John wrathfully. “Well, my dear John, we must consider the point of view. Every man has his own, you know. As a matter of fact, I’m afraid, from Sanders’s point of view, you were trespassing.” John’s face was a study. “I never thought to live to hear you say that, Squire.” “I only said from his point of view,” cried the Squire, hastily. “He’s naturally, perhaps, a little jealous; you were here so many years, you know, and of course, like all young men--young men will have foolish notions, John--he thinks his way is the best way. We old fogies must just give in for the sake of peace and comfort.” “Noo ways,” agreed the old man, sorrowfully; “noo folks and noo ways.” “As you heard me say just now,” resumed his master, “_I_ don’t interfere with him, and, upon my life, I think it’s better you shouldn’t interfere, John. I fancy it would be wiser if you could just keep away for a little bit--then no one could say you were trespassing, you know.” “I’ll keep away, Squire,” said John. “No fear; I’ll keep away. Ye’ll not have to tell I that twice.” “You and I are free to have our own opinions, of course,” urged the Squire, smiling, “but we’ll keep them to ourselves--these young folks you know----” But John did not smile in return; his head, always bent, drooped almost to his breast, his lips moved, but uttered no sound. After a moment or two, he pulled his forelock, scraped his leg, and turned to depart. “You’re not going, John?” “’E-es, sir, I be goin’, I bain’t wanted here no more. As you do say, noo times----” “Now, now, I can’t have you going away offended. Don’t you see how it is, John?”