And what will he be thinking about all day? He will wish that farmer Giles would only let him have one of those old pollards on the hedge-bank. He could stay and grub it up after work of moonlight nights. It would give a little firing, and his missus would be glad to see it come home. Things are getting unneighbourly dear, and he will hope that farmer Giles will raise his wages a shilling, or even sixpence a week. But he has heard talk of lowering wages. Times are very hard, and folk must live. He will hope that baby will soon be better; but it always was a poor scrinchling. He will hope his wife may not be laid up this winter, as she was last. That was a bad job. He got behind at the mill then. Tom and Dick have been without shoes ever since, and he can’t say how the doctor’s bill is ever to be paid. He will wish he could buy a little malt to brew a little beer. He shouldn’t make it over-strong. He doesn’t hold with that. He will think it can’t be far off six o’clock. He will wish they had not done away with the old path across Crab-tree Field. It used to save him many a step, going and coming. He minds that field well, because when he was scaring crows in that field—he must have been going eight years old then—the parson came along the path, and he asked the parson, ‘Please, sir, what’s o’clock?’ and the parson gave him sixpence. It was the first sixpence he ever got, and it was a long time before he got another. He always says the parson gave him that sixpence, because when the parson said, ‘What, boy, have you pawned your watch?’ he kind of laughed. He minds, too, that the corn came up very slow that year. It was cold times. Perhaps that was why he asked, What’s o’clock? Poor fellow, in his life there is plenty of margin for wishes and hopes. As he trudges home you see that his features are weather-beaten and hard. It would not be easy to get a smile out of them; and, if it did come, it would be rather grim. His back is bent; his gait is slouchy; his joints are beginning to stiffen from work and rheumatism. His life is dreary and hard, and so is his wife’s. She, too, is up before daylight; and her candle is alight some time after he has laid down his weary limbs, and sleep has brought him forgetfulness. She has some odd things to do which must be done, and which she had no spare minutes for during the day. She is now seated for the first time since five o’clock in the morning, with the exception of the short intervals when she snatched her humble meals. She has, unassisted, to do everything that is done in that house, and for that family of six or seven in all. She has to keep the house, the children, and her husband tidy. She has a weekly wash, daily repairs, daily cooking, weekly baking; to buy all that is wanted; to look after the sick baby, and the other children; and to look in occasionally on her sick neighbour.