"Father," said Jim, holding out his hand, "don't let's talk of it any more. On my part it's all forgotten, and there's nothing to forgive."
"God bless you, boy!" said John, lifting a hand to his black beard to hide the emotion he was unable to control.
"There's something else," said he, after a pause; "I'm getting old."
"You're not sixty yet!" cried his wife.
"That's too old for a head-gamekeeper," answered Braid, thrusting his thumbs into the armholes of his moleskin waistcoat. "A keeper should be a young man and an active one. Lately I've had rheumatism, and I'm not up to the night work. I told Mr. Langton this morning that I didn't think I was fit to carry on the work, and he's given me a pension, though I never asked for it nor thought of it."
"You've given up your work!" exclaimed his wife. "You're no longer head-keeper at Friar's Court!"
"No," said the man. "I'm not."
"Who's got the place?" she asked.
Braid made a motion of his hand towards his son.
"Jim," said he—and smiled.