Joe shambled over and sat down. His wife, leaning painfully forward in her chair, moved the little brown teapot from the hob to the table, and then, stooping again with yet more difficulty, took up a plateful of dry toast and proffered it to the old man. “There!” she said. “I made ye that for a bit of a change. The fire was burnin’ up so clear an’ nice, I jest thought I’d do it. ’Twill be a nice change for ’ee, Joseph—’twill sure.” She spoke in a high quavering voice, peering anxiously the while at her spouse. He took a piece of toast and turned it over; then broke off a bit and flung it on the table. “’Tis as hard as flint, woman,” he said indignantly. “Where d’ye think I can find teeth to bite en?” “Nay now, ’tis not so ’ard as that comes to,” urged she. “I can bite en, an’ I han’t got a single tooth left. Sop it in yer tea, do ’ee now, an’ it’ll slip down nice.” “Slip down, indeed! It ’ud want a bit o’ butter, or a bit o’ graise for that. But here us be—two old ancient folks as has lived in this parish man an’ wife for fifty-two year, an’ they’ll not so much as gi’e us a tater.” [Picture: “They’ll not so much as gi’e us a tater”] “Yes a tater ’ud be nice, sure,” quavered the old woman. “It ’ud be very nice.” “Or a bit o’ green stuff ’ud be nice,” went on Frisby emphatically. “I could eat this bread if they’d gi’e I a bit o’ green to put to’t. But no, ’tis ‘_Go away_, _I’ve nothin’ for ’ee_’ all round. There’s every man an’ bwoy in the place workin’ up at the ’lotments, gettin’ the taters into the ground as fast as ever they can stick ’em. If they was to gi’e us half a dozen each they’d never miss it, an’ I could get my bit ’o ground planted up. But no, they be all took up wi’ theirselves—never a thought for we.” Mrs. Frisby rubbed her shrivelled hands together, and sighed. “Ah, ’tis hard,” she said; “’tis hard, sure.” And then silence fell between the old couple, and each consumed their meagre fare without any great appearance of appetite. Presently Joseph set down his cup, pushed back his chair, and stood up. “Where be goin’?” asked his wife querulously. “I never seed such a fidget of a man.” “I’m goin’ up to the ’lotments,” he responded curtly. “Laive me a pail o’ water first, do, so as I can be washin’ up. I reckoned ye’d ha’ helped me a bit to-night—rheumatics is terrible bad.” Joseph took up the pail without a word and went out; presently an excruciating creaking and squeaking was heard as he turned the rusty handle of the windlass. After some time he hobbled back, the water splashing from the overflowing bucket at every step. “Dear! what a mess the man d’ make!” groaned Mrs. Frisby. “Carry it studdy, for the Lard’s sake. Now sit down, do ’ee, an’ gi’e me a hand.” “Nay, I’m off,” responded her lord in surly tones; and in another moment the garden gate creaked on its hinges, and his departing steps fell heavily on the lane outside.