“Nay, sir, I don’t see nothin’ but what you’ve a-gone and thrown over a old servant for a noo un. That be all as I can see. You didn’t check en for insultin’ of I, and you did uphold him and made little of I. I be goin’, and you’ll never be troubled wi’ I again. I’m fit for nothin’. I be a-eatin’ of your bread and a-takin’ of your money and doin’ nothin’ for ’t. Eatin’ the bread o’ idleness! I d’ ’low it ’ull fair choke I.” The Squire, vexed and perplexed, in vain sought to soothe him, but he waved aside all attempts at consolation, and made his way slowly out of the room and out of the house. The Squire watched him as he went tottering down the avenue. “What’s to be done?” he said to himself. “The poor old chap is past his work; it would be cruelty to allow him to attempt it. Sanders is an excellent fellow, on the other hand--more go-ahead than dear old John, and, it must be owned, a better keeper. He would certainly have given notice if I had allowed John to continue his visitations here. It is the only thing to be done, but I can’t bear to see the poor old fellow so cut up.” As Guppy passed the keeper’s lodge the dogs ran forward, leaping upon him and whining. He patted them absently, and then pushed them off. “Down, Rover, down! There, Bessie, off wi’ you; you should learn a lesson fro’ your betters. Stick to the noo folks, and get rid of the wold. Poor beasts! they be fain to see I, I d’ ’low. Dogs bain’t like Christians. They don’t seem to know when a man be down. They be faithful, all the same; they haven’t a-got no sense, poor things.” He was spent and trembling when he arrived at his own home, and sank down in his chair by the hearth. “There, missis, put away my gun; I’ll not want it no more; I be done wi’ it--I be done wi’ everythin’. I could wish that there stroke had a-carried I off. I bain’t no use i’ this world as I can see. It do seem a strange thing as the Lard ’ll leave ye to live on and on when folks be tired o’ ye, and be a-wishin’ of ye under the sod. I wish I were i’ my long home--aye, that I do.” Mrs. Guppy was at first alarmed, then affected, and finally burst into tears. “I’m sure I never did hear a man go on the same as you do, Jan; there, I be all of a tremble. What’s amiss? What’s come to ye? What’s it all about?” “Gi’ I my pipe,” said John; “there’s things a woman can’t understand.” Not another word could she extract from him till dinner-time, when she summoned him to table. He gazed at the food sourly. “All charity!” he murmured. “Charity, woman. I be eatin’ what I haven’t earned. I may jist so well go to the Union.” A few days later the Squire’s dogcart drew up at the little gate, and the Squire himself descended therefrom, carrying a couple of rabbits which he extracted from under the seat. “Good-day, John; good-day, Mrs. Guppy. Well, John, how are you? Cheering up a bit, I hope.” John shook his head slowly.