Then there was the fierce old sheep-dog, Spring, who died. There was a very grand funeral and a properly-dug grave. Jack, the youngest boy, acted as grave-digger, clerk and clergyman all in one; he was so serious that he never saw anything the least bit funny about his work. And there followed him to the grave-side, Elinor, Maggie and Deborah, all wearing a remnant of black. They were strange days—curious dream-like days—and they followed each other silently, like shadows over grain fields. Thus the time passed on, and gradually, gradually, the cloud darkened. Some said when his wife died the farmer showed every sign of relief—perhaps, poor man, he did. In the ruin that was staring at him he could face it better alone. She was not quite the woman to invite, he not the man to give, confidences. Oh, Life! Life! Life! how many couples are there that will face these things bravely? How much selfishness would have to be torn from its very heart-roots! How much narrow-heartedness and shallow depths have to be swept right away! But, by the irony of fate, though he had escaped from his wife he could not escape altogether from his family. He must provide for them and look after them, ruin or no ruin. Accordingly, two years after his wife’s death, he gave notice that he was leaving the farm, but where he was going or what he was going to do no one knew. When it was heard that the farmer had given up the farm everybody talked. Naturally people wondered what he was going to do; he was getting middle-aged, they thought, and too old to start a new line of business. The real fact probably was that he did not know what he was going to do himself. He wished to get to some town and there try what luck would do for him. Experience had not yet taught him that he was essentially an unlucky man. Along with all these worries for the farmer his children lived their own little lives. Elinor had her photograph taken and went and spoiled the family album by going into the parlour secretly and forcing all her photos (a round dozen) into the empty spaces. She tore the paper and spoilt the album, and you may be sure she did not get off lightly. Next, Maggie found out whereabouts in this same wonderful parlour the iced Christmas cake was kept. She went quietly and helped herself to the delicious sugar. At first they thought it was a mouse. So it was, but just a little two-legged one, who was soon found out, and suffered the natural penalty of such greed. Deborah, however, didn’t do much in this interesting line. She had no individuality, and it always needs individuality to err. At this time she had more respect for the grey cat than for any human being, and more love for the speckled chickens than anything beside. They made up her small world and she was quite content; it would have been far too much trouble to commit any of the faults common to childhood.