“No, no,” pleaded Joe, almost tearfully; “’tis too bad to say such things, and take a pore man’s character away. I’ll gi’e ye me Bible oath—dang me, an’ everythin’ reg’lar by the Book—that I’d put ’em straight in the ground, Jim Cross.” “Well, I can’t spare the taters, anyhow,” grumbled Jim. “I’m a pore man an’ have to purvide for mysel’ an’ my family. I’m sorry I can’t obleege ye, but so ’tis.” He walked off, leaving poor old Joe staring blankly after him. By and by a light quick tread was heard approaching from the opposite direction, and a dapper-looking young fellow rounded the corner of the lane, whistling to himself as he advanced. He, too, carried a fork, and a half-filled sack was flung over his shoulder. “Goin’ up to the ’lotments?” inquired Joseph falteringly. “Yes, I’ve jest knocked off work, an’ am goin’ up there for an hour or two before dark. Fine evenin’, Mr. Frisby.” “Aye, sure,” said Joseph. “Ye’ve got a grand sackful there, Jan.” “’Tis a big piece to fill up, Mr. Frisby. We han’t got above half enough o’ our own. We’ll have to buy some.” “I haven’t got _one_ to put in my bit o’ ground,” said Joseph impressively. “What do ye think of that, Jan Domeny? Not one; no, nor not so much as a stalk o’ cabbage.” “Well now,” said Jan, “’tis very sad, that, Mr. Frisby. A sorrowful tale, indeed. May-hap Parson ’ud help ye.” “Nay,” returned Joseph lugubriously; “we be chapel folk, an’ Parson he says he han’t got no faith in me.” “Well, ’tis terrible onfart’nate for ’ee, I’m sure,” returned Mr. Domeny unconcernedly. “But bad times can’t laist for ever. There’s comfort in that, Mr. Frisby. The Lard trumpets the wind to the sore lamb, as Scriptur’ says.” Having delivered himself of this edifying aphorism, young Jan Domeny hoisted his sack a little higher up on his shoulder, and strode on. “They be all alike,” muttered Joe to himself; “they be a stony-hearted lot. Not one among ’em ’ud gi’e a man a helpin’ hand. Dang ’em all!” cried Joe, and he thumped upon the gate. He turned and shuffled slowly towards the house, pushing open the door. A little old woman was sitting, propped up by pillows, in an armchair near the hearth. She was almost crippled by rheumatism, yet managed in some inexplicable way to preserve a tolerable appearance of neatness and cleanliness, both in her own person and in such of her surroundings as came within reach of her poor distorted fingers. The hearth was tidy, for instance, and the kitchen utensils and crockery on the little dresser behind her chair were bright and clean. It must be supposed that her husband, who would have been much the better for a share of her attention, kept himself systematically out of reach. “Well?” she inquired, eagerly looking up as he entered. “Well, ’tain’t a bit o’ use. They’ll none o’ them do a thing for me.” Mrs. Frisby sighed. “Come, sit down anyhow,” she said. “Supper’s ready, an’ the tea’s drawed beautiful.”