But her blue eyes had acquired a scared look of late, and the bloom had faded in her cheeks. What else was to be expected? The wolf was always at the door, and the fear of it was perpetually present in the heart of the wife and mother. Farmer Bolt, in the intervals of chopping at his twigs and superintending the leisurely tossing of “roots” into the cart, found time to scan the windings of the Drove, and had indeed observed his daughter long before she had caught sight of him. It may be presumed that he took note of her hasty endeavours to make herself and her family presentable, yet he appeared to be absorbed in his own labours when she halted beneath the bank on which he was stationed. “Be that you, father? Look, Abel, look-see, ’tis granfer!” Mr Bolt parted the thin screen of shoots surmounting the hedge and peered over. “’Tis you, be it?” “It’s me. I be just goin’ down to the house to have a chat wi’ mother.” “Ah,” said the farmer. He lifted his bill-hook and examined it as though he had never set eyes on it before; then he ran his finger thoughtfully along the edge. “That’s granfer, look-see,” repeated Alice in a tone of assumed cheerfulness. “Look at granfer’s hedgin’ hook, Abel! Call ‘Granfer,’ lovey!” “Gran-fer!” cried Abel, obediently. It was the first time his grandfather had heard the child pronounce an articulate word, and at sound of it he was unable to resist the impulse to lean forward a little more and gaze down at the perambulator and its occupants. “Learnt to talk, has he?” he enquired, ungraciously enough, yet eyeing the little fellow with a sort of curiosity. “Well, he can only say a few words,” explained the mother, almost stammering in her haste to bring out the information before the grandfather’s interest had waned. “‘Granfer’ was one o’ the first words he said. He says it very plain, don’t he?” “Plain enough,” responded the farmer, gruffly, and he let the twigs which he had been holding slap back again into their ordinary position. “He’ve come on a good bit since ye see’d him last,” hazarded the mother. “Folks about us thinks he’s come on wonderful. Don’t ye think he’s come on, father?” Her father parted the screen of twigs again, and as the bearded face was thrust forth once more, Abel junior tilted himself back in his place and gleefully shouted “Cuckoo!” For the life of him the grandfather could not help smiling. He did not speak, but gazed at the child for a moment or two, the lines of his countenance relaxing. “Cuckoo!” cried Abel junior, anxiously watching the upper twigs of the hedge. “He thinks you’m playin’ a game wi’ en,” explained the mother tremulously.