His personal appearance was not engaging--high cheek-bones, small gray sunken eyes, a large mouth, and long wiry neck, with broad shoulders, a little curved by the _anno domini_; clothed always in one style, namely, a long plush vest, which might have been blue once; a pair of drab nethers, well veneered with blacking and harness paste; from which was suspended a pair of black leather leggings, meeting some thin ankle-jacks. This, with a no-coloured string, which had once been a necktie, and a catskin cap, completed his attire. My attention had been attracted to an old hound--a fox-hound--reclining at full length on his side on the pathway leading to the stables, his slumbers broken by sudden jerks of his body and twitches of his limbs, accompanied by almost inaudible little screams; leading me to suppose that this poor old hound was reviewing in his slumbers some of the scenes of his early life, and dreaming of bygone November days when he had taken part in the pursuit of some good straight-necked fox in the Oakley or the Grafton country. "What is that hound?" I asked. "He looks like one of poor Old Lal's team." "Ah, that's the _last_ on 'em. They are all gone now but poor old Trojan, and he gets very weak and old." When I noticed him he slowly rose, and sauntered across the yard towards a large open coachhouse, used as a receptacle for hearses and mourning-coaches. He did not respond to my advances, except by standing still and looking me in the face with the most wobegone expression possible, his deep brow almost concealing his red eyes. He was very poor, his long staring coat barely covering his protruding hips and ribs. There he stood, motionless, as if listening intently to the sad tale Daniel Sleigh was graphically relating. "And what has become of poor Old Lal?" I asked. "Oh, he's left this two years or more." "Whither is he gone?" "I don't know as he's gone anywheres; they took him up to the churchyard to be left till called for. You see, sir, he never 'ad no kins nor directors (executors), or anybody as cared whether they ever see him again or not. He was an honest man though a wagrant; which he never robbed nobody, nor ever had any parish relief. What money he had I used to take care of for him; and when he went away he had a matter of sixteen pounds twelve and twopence, which I kep' for him, only as he wanted now and again tenpence or a shilling to give a treat to his hounds." "Where did he die?"