This somewhat circuitous path led first past a horse-pond, then skirted the beautifully kept churchyard, with the ancient, ivy-grown edifice in the centre. Then it darted off at an abrupt angle, apparently to avoid encroaching on the farm premises in the rear of the church, where the picturesque building which had once been a tithe-barn was now devoted to humbler purposes. The lane ceased at its junction with the high road, but crossing the latter, and following the footpath for a little way, Joseph came to another lane which, after a few hundred yards, became a steep ascent. The blackthorn was still in flower here and there in the hedges, which accounted, as the country folk would have said, for the peculiarly keen and chilly quality of the evening blast; but the twisted twigs of the more genial hawthorn were powdered, as it were, with a delicate dust of green. Trailing tendrils of honeysuckle were already in full leaf, and young saplings of elder stretched out slender bare limbs tufted at the ends with crimson. Downy catkins, moreover, on many a willow bough gave further promise of the rapid approach of the “Sweet o’ the Year;” and there were violets in the banks, and here and there a patch of primroses; and a glory of dandelions everywhere. But poor old Joe Frisby, as he toiled painfully up the stony incline, had no eye for any of these trivialities; his mind was set upon more weighty matters—he was bent, indeed, upon nothing less important than an appeal to the community at large. Singly the neighbours had rejected and despised his petition; taken collectively they might, for very shame’s sake, be moved to grant it. No man, as Joseph dimly felt, likes his individual generosity to be overmuch counted upon; but a whole community—each member making quite sure that his neighbour does as much as he—may sometimes be persuaded to accede to a claim which all alike acknowledge. Now voices fell upon his ear, accompanied by the sound of spades at work. An opening in the hedge revealed a gate towards which Joseph made his way. On the other side lay the allotments; narrow strips of ground, most of which were already broken up into brown ridges, while a few were still encumbered with the lingering stalks of last year’s cabbages, or an untidy growth of weeds. On this propitious evening the place seemed alive with men and women; some delving, some hoeing, some cutting up the “sets”—not a patch of ground but had its occupant. Every one was busy and every one seemed merry. Jan Domeny, with coat flung off and shirt-sleeves rolled high, was lustily chanting a three-year-old music-hall ditty, which had just found its way to Dorset. Further away the bent back of Jim Cross formed a moving arch against the sky-line; a grandchild had joined him, and was trotting along beside him carrying the basket of potatoes.