“So ur will, Tom, but let’s have breakfast fust. Come, lad.”
They wandered still through the quiet fields, and the old man’s mind seemed giving way. But I saw that
Mrs. Bumpkin kept up with him and cheered him whenever she could put in a word of comfort, cold and hopeless as it was. And so the day was spent, and the night came, and they entered their home for the last time. It was a terribly sad night; but the Vicar came and sat up late with the old people, and talked to them and read and cried with them, until at last Tom said:
“I zee it, sir, thee hast showed I; thank God for thy words. Yes, yes, we maun leave t’ morrer, and we’ll call on thee, and maybe thou’lt goo to th’ Squire wi’ us and explaain to un how we can’t pay our rent, and may be th’ Squire’ll let I work un out. If we could only work un out, I’d be ’appy.”
“Ay, Tom,” said Mrs. Bumpkin, “an I’ll work too; thee knows that.”
“Thee wast allays a good wife, Nancy; and I’ll allays say’t, come what wooll.”
“Yes,” said the Vicar, “to-morrow we will go—”
“I don’t want un to forgive I th’ rent,” said Tom; “only to gie us time, and Nancy and I’ll work un out.” And so it was arranged that the next morning the old home was to be left for ever. It was no longer home, for every article of furniture, every tool, every scrap that was of any value had been ruthlessly seized by the heartless money-lender whom the Law permitted to rob under the name of a bill of sale. The man was in possession to take away their bed and the few other articles that were left for their accommodation till the morrow.
And on the morrow I saw the last of poor Bumpkin that I shall ever see. In the beautiful sunshine of that October morning, just by the old oak, he was leaning over the gate looking his last at the dear old fields and the old farm-house where so many happy years had been
spent. By his side was his wife, with her hand shading her eyes; the old dog was between them, looking into the face now of Tom and then of his wife. Mr. Bumpkin’s arms were resting on the gate, and his old ash stick that he used to walk with over the fields was in his hand. They stood there for a long, long time as though they could never leave it. And I saw the tears trickle down the old man’s face as Mrs. Bumpkin, letting fall the corner of her apron, which she had held to her eyes, and placing her arm through his, said in a faltering voice:—