I looked round to the cold, whitewashed room, with its ceiling curving and sloping down the walls. It was sparsely furnished, and bare of even the slightest ornament. The only things of warm colour were the cow and horse skins on the floor. All the rest was white or grey or drab. On one side, the roof sloped down so that the window was below my knees, and nearly touching the floor, on the other side was a larger window, breast high. Through it one could see the jumbled, ruddy roofs of the sheds and the skies. The tiles were shining with patches of vivid orange lichen. Beyond was the corn-field, and the men, small in the distance, lifting the sheaves on the cart. “You will come back to farming again, won’t you?” I asked him, turning to the bed. He smiled. “I don’t know,” he answered dully. “Would you rather I went downstairs?” I asked. “No, I’m glad to see you,” he replied, in the same uneasy fashion. “I’ve only just come back from France,” I said. “Ah!” he replied, indifferent. “I am sorry you’re ill,” I said. He stared unmovedly at the opposite wall. I went to the window and looked out. After some time, I compelled myself to say, in a casual manner: “Won’t you get up and come out a bit?” “I suppose Is’ll have to,” he said, gathering himself slowly together for the effort. He pushed himself up in bed. When he took off the jacket of his pajamas to wash himself I turned away. His arms seemed thin, and he had bellied, and was bowed and unsightly. I remembered the morning we swam in the mill-pond. I remembered that he was now in the prime of his life. I looked at his bluish feeble hands as he laboriously washed himself. The soap once slipped from his fingers as he was picking it up, and fell, rattling the pot loudly. It startled us, and he seemed to grip the sides of the washstand to steady himself. Then he went on with his slow, painful toilet. As he combed his hair he looked at himself with dull eyes of shame. The men were coming in from the scullery when we got downstairs. Dinner was smoking on the table. I shook hands with Tom Renshaw, and with the old man’s hard, fierce left hand. Then I was introduced to Arthur Renshaw, a clean-faced, large, bashful lad of twenty. I nodded to the man, Jim, and to Jim’s wife, Annie. We all sat down to table. “Well, an’ ’ow are ter feelin’ by now, like?” asked the old man heartily of George. Receiving no answer, he continued, “Tha should ’a gor up an’ com’ an’ gen us a ’and wi’ th’ wheat, it ’ud ’a done thee good.” “You will have a bit of this mutton, won’t you?” Tom asked him, tapping the joint with the carving knife. George shook his head. “It’s quite lean and tender,” he said gently. “No, thanks,” said George. “Gi’e ’im a bit, gi’e ’im a bit!” cried the old man. “It’ll do ’im good—it’s what ’e wants, a bit o’ strengthenin’ nourishment.”