"’Ow ’e do ride," said old Hawken, as the furious figure melted into the growing dusk and only the beat of the hoofs reached the listeners, a beat which in turn was merged in the distant sound of the tide. "One of these days ’e’ll break ’is neck." "’Tis like ’e’s tearin’ away from something," said Aunt Louisa suddenly. "Do ’ee think," said Mrs. Bate, lowering her voice, "do ’ee think th’ Old Squire knaw what’s happenin’ above ground?" "If ’e do," said Hawken, "’e must find it terr’ble ’ard for that feller to be in ’is place." "And alterin’ things," said Aunt Louisa. "Old Squire," said Mrs. Bate mysteriously, "can look after’s own. You mark my words, thiccy feller ’ont ’av all ’is own way." Willie Brenton took the towel from his neck and handed it to the sailor. "Your turn, Mr. ’Awken." The old man got up painfully. "My feet’s terr’ble knucklin’ to-day and my poor laigs is stiff with the rheumatism; but still they’m better’n no laigs. I wonder ’ow poor Mrs. Byron’ll manage?" This was a matter of interest to the cottagers. They supposed that, for the cooking and cleaning, Mrs. Byron would employ one of themselves. Mrs. Bate, who had not been married, had yet grandchildren old enough to go out to service. "We’ve all worked there in an’ out," she said, "but now the poor thing’ll ’av to ’av some one there altogether. She’ll be so helpless as a baby." "I bet she won’t," said Aunt Louisa, folding together a patched garment and preparing to go indoors for the night. "Mrs. Byron’ll frighten us all yet for what she can do." "I reckon she ’ont ’av the ’eaft to go about the work as she used to. My mind tell me she’s done for," said Hawken. Aunt Louisa nodded her trim grey head in the direction of Church Town. "Not till she’s laid alongside the Old Squire," she said and, going in, shut her door with the precision of touch characteristic of her every movement. At Wastralls, the following morning, Byron went as usual into the yard. Two breeding sows, black as a cave’s mouth, were wandering about and, on a heap of straw in the sun, lay an old sheep-dog. The dog wagged its tail but, unfortunately, did not rise and the man’s sore heart registered its laziness as an affront. "Shep’s gone past for work," he said to George Biddick, who was standing by waiting for orders. "Iss, I b’lieve ’e is. Gettin’ blind." "Better give’m a dose. You come to me at twelve and I’ll ’av it ready for ’ee." He cast a vindictive look at the old dog. "And, Biddick..." "Iss, sir?" "I’ve changed my mind about the li’l medder. I’m afraid ’tis too late for sugar-beet this year, I’ll ’av it teeled in dredge-corn."