“Very like I be,” returned Abel loftily. He was not proud, but thoroughly aware of his own importance.
One of the other men, the father of a family, humbly mentioned that he had a fine well-grown lad at home that would, maybe, suit Mr. Robbins as well as another, and Abel graciously promised to think of it.
He went home thoroughly convinced that a piece of most unexpected good luck had befallen him, an opinion which was shared by all his neighbours. As for Mr. and Mrs. Joyce they kept their own counsel.
PRIVATE GRIGGS.
The November landscape was sombre and melancholy enough; brown, newly-ploughed fields alternating for the most part with the tawny stubble of land that still lay fallow. A few withered leaves clung to the branches of trees and hedges; the sky was grey, the air heavy and yet cold. It was a fit day to hear news of trouble, Mrs. Frizzell thought, as her eyes roamed over the prospect, not vaguely as another woman’s might have done, but with a definite object in view.
She proceeded at a round pace up the lane, and along the high road, leaving it, after half a mile or so, to strike across the fields.
She was a small, energetic-looking woman, with hazel eyes and prematurely grey hair. Her usually cheerful face was deadly pale to-day, and its characteristically alert expression had given place to one of devouring anxiety.
Presently against the sky-line above a distant hedge appeared the head and shoulders of a man, and a little way in front of him the ears and crests of two horses. Mrs. Frizzell quickened her pace, making for a familiar gap in the hedge aforesaid, through which she presently squeezed herself.
The man, who had not seen her, continued his slow progress across the field. Without calling out to him she broke into a run, her feet sinking deep at every step in the newly turned-up soil; after a few minutes she reached him, panting, and laid her hand upon his shoulder.
He looked round with a start, and brought his horses to a standstill.