To work he set, by the light of the fire, and the dame, having once more stirred it, began again with:
"Jem, dear, does he go lame at all, now?"
"What, Lightfoot? O la, no, not he! Never was so well of his lameness in all his life—he's grown quite young again, I think; and then he's so fat, he can hardly wag."
"God bless him—that's right; we must see, Jem, and keep him fat."
"For what, mother?"
"For Monday fortnight, at the fair; he's to be—sold!"
"Lightfoot!" cried Jem, and let the bridle fall from his hand. "And will mother sell Lightfoot?"
"'Will,' no; but I 'must,' Jem."
"'Must;' who says you 'must?' Why 'must' you, mother?"
"I must, I say, child!—Why, must not I pay my debts honestly—and must not I pay my rent? And was not it called for long and long ago? And have not I had time? And did not I promise to pay it for certain Monday fortnight? And am not I two guineas short?—And where am I to get two guineas! So what signifies talking, child?" said the widow, leaning her head upon her arm. "Lightfoot must go."