Now, the widow Preston was so obliging, active and good-humoured, that everyone who came to see her was pleased. She lived happily in this manner for several years; but, alas! one autumn she fell sick, and, during her illness, everything went wrong; her garden was neglected, her cow died, and all the money which she had saved was spent in paying for medicines. The winter passed away, while she was so weak that she could earn but little by her work; and when the summer came, her rent was called for, and the rent was not ready in her little purse as usual. She begged a few months’ delay, and they were granted to her; but at the end of that time there was no resource but to sell her horse Lightfoot. Now Lightfoot, though perhaps he had seen his best days, was a very great favourite. In his youth he had always carried the dame to the market behind her husband; and it was now her little son Jem’s turn to ride him. It was Jem’s business to feed Lightfoot, and to take care of him—a charge which he never neglected, for, besides being a very good natured, he was a very industrious boy. “It will go near to break my Jem’s heart,” said Dame Preston to herself, as she sat one evening beside the fire stirring the embers, and considering how she had best open the matter to her son, who stood opposite to her, eating a dry crust of bread very heartily for supper. “Jem,” said the old woman, “what, ar’t hungry?” “That I am, brave and hungry!” “Ay! no wonder, you’ve been brave hard at work—Eh?” “Brave hard! I wish it was not so dark, mother, that you might just step out and see the great bed I’ve dug; I know you’d say it was no bad day’s work—and oh, mother! I’ve good news: Farmer Truck will give us the giant strawberries, and I’m to go for ’em to-morrow morning, and I’ll be back afore breakfast.” “God bless the boy! how he talks!—Four mile there, and four mile back again, afore breakfast.” “Ay, upon Lightfoot, you know, mother, very easily; mayn’t I?” “Ay, child!” “Why do you sigh, mother?” “Finish thy supper, child.” “I’ve done!” cried Jem, swallowing the last mouthful hastily, as if he thought he had been too long at supper—“and now for the great needle; I must see and mend Lightfoot’s bridle afore I go to bed.” To work he set, by the light of the fire, and the dame having once more stirred it, began again with “Jem, dear, does he go lame at all now?” “What, Lightfoot! Oh, la, no, not he—never was so well of his lameness in all his life. He’s grown quite young again, I think, and then he’s so fat he can hardly wag.” “God bless him—that’s right. We must see, Jem, and keep him fat.” “For what, mother?” “For Monday fortnight at the fair. He’s to be—sold!” “Lightfoot!” cried Jem, and let the bridle fall from his hand; “and _will_ mother sell Lightfoot?” “_Will_? no: but I _must_, Jem.” “Must! who says you _must_? why _must_ you, mother?”