It was at this stage in the unfolding phenomenon of night that life moved upon the void; a black, amorphous smudge crawled out of the gloom and crept tardily along. At length its form, as a double star seen through a telescope, divided and revealed a brace of animals, one of which staggered slowly on four legs, while the other went on two. A man led a horse by a halter; and the horse was old and black, bent, broken-kneed and worn out; while the man was also bent and ancient of his kind. Neither could travel very fast, and one was at the end of his life’s journey, while the other had a small measure of years still assured. Death thus moved across Ringmoor and trod a familiar rut in the wilderness; because, under the darkness eastward, was a bourn for beasts that had ceased to possess any living value. Through extinction only they served their masters for the last time and made profitable this final funeral march. The horse stopped, turned and seemed to ask a question with his eyes. "Get on!" said the man. "There ban’t much further for you to go." The brute dragged towards peace and his hind hoofs struck sometimes and sounded the dull and dreary note of his own death bell; the old man sighed because he was very weary. Then from the fringe of night sprang young life and met this forlorn procession. A tall girl appeared and three collie dogs galloped and circled about her. Noting the man, they ran up to him, barked and wagged their tails in greeting. "Be that anybody from Ditsworthy?" asked the traveller of the female shadow. "’Tis I--Rhoda Bowden. I thought as you might be pretty tired and came to shorten your journey--that is if you’m old Mr. Elford from Good-a-Meavy." "I am the man, and never older than to-night." He stopped and rubbed his leg. The girl stood over him by half a foot. She was tall and straight, but in the murk one could see no more than her outlines, her pale sun-bonnet and a pale face under it. "Have you got the money?" said the man. "Yes--ten shillings." She spoke slowly, with a voice uncommon deep for a young woman. "Not twelve?" "No." The ancient made a sound that indicated disappointment and annoyance. "And the price of the halter?" "We don’t want that. One of my brothers will bring it back to you next time they be down-along." He handed her the rope and took a coin from her. Then he brought a little leathern purse from his breeches pocket and put the money into it. "You’re sure your faither didn’t say twelve?" "No." "He’s a hard man. Good-night to you." "’Tis the right price for a dead horse. Good-night." The ancient had no farewell word for his beast, and the companions of twelve years parted for ever. The girl took her way with the old horse; the man turned in his tracks moodily, chattering to himself.