Mr. Carter looked up sharply and, catching sight of the grinning features of Mr. Blows protruding over the edge of the straw, threw up his arms with a piercing shriek and fell off the shafts on to the road. The astounded Mr. Blows, raising himself on his hands, saw him pick himself up and, giving vent to a series of fearsome yelps, run clumsily back along the road. “Joe!” shouted Mr. Blows. “J-o-o-oE!” [Illustration] Mr. Carter put his hands to his ears and ran on blindly, while his friend, sitting on the top of the straw, regarded his proceedings with mixed feelings of surprise and indignation. “It can’t be that tanner ’e owes me,” he mused, “and yet I don’t know what else it can be. I never see a man so jumpy.” He continued to speculate while the old horse, undisturbed by the driver’s absence, placidly continued its journey. A mile farther, however, he got down to take the short cut by the fields. “If Joe can’t look after his ’orse and cart,” he said, primly, as he watched it along the road, “it’s not my business.” The footpath was not much used at that time of night, and he only met one man. They were in the shadow of the trees which fringed the new cemetery as they passed, and both peered. The stranger was satisfied first and, to Mr. Blows’s growing indignation, first gave a leap backward which would not have disgraced an acrobat, and then made off across the field with hideous outcries. “If I get ’old of some of you,” said the offended Mr. Blows, “I’ll give you something to holler for.” He pursued his way grumbling, and insensibly slackened his pace as he drew near home. A remnant of conscience which had stuck to him without encouragement for thirty-five years persisted in suggesting that he had behaved badly. It also made a few ill-bred inquiries as to how his wife and children had subsisted for the last three months. He stood outside the house for a short space, and then, opening the door softly, walked in. The kitchen-door stood open, and his wife in a black dress sat sewing by the light of a smoky lamp. She looked up as she heard his footsteps, and then, without a word, slid from the chair full length to the floor. “Go on,” said Mr. Blows, bitterly; “keep it up. Don’t mind me.” Mrs. Blows paid no heed; her face was white and her eyes were closed. Her husband, with a dawning perception of the state of affairs, drew a mug of water from the tap and flung it over her. She opened her eyes and gave a faint scream, and then, scrambling to her feet, tottered toward him and sobbed on his breast. “There, there,” said Mr. Blows. “Don’t take on; I forgive you.” “Oh, John,” said his wife, sobbing convulsively, “I thought you was dead. I thought you was dead. It’s only a fortnight ago since we buried you!” “_Buried me?_” said the startled Mr. Blows. “_Buried me?_”