Night came, and the fireside was as cosy as ever. But there was a sense of sadness nevertheless. Tim seemed to understand that something was not quite as it should be, for he was restless, and looked up plaintively in his master’s face, and went to Joe and put his head in his lap; then turned away and stretched himself out on the hearth, winking his eyes at the fire.
It is always a melancholy effort to “keep up the spirits” when the moment of separation is at hand. One longs for the last shake of the hand and the final good-bye. This was the case at Southwood Farm on this memorable evening. Nothing in the room looked as usual. The pewter plates on the shelf shone indeed, but it was like the smile of a winter sun; it lacked the usual cheery warmth. Even the old clock seemed to feel sad as he ticked out with melancholy monotony the parting moments; and the wind, as it came in heavy gusts and howled round the old chimney, seemed more melancholy than need be under the circumstances.
“Thee must be careful, Tom,” said Mrs. Bumpkin; “that Lunnun, as I hear, be a terrible plaace.”
“How be un a terrible plaace?” said Bumpkin, sarcastically. “I bean’t a child, Nancy.”
“No, thee bean’t a child, Tom; but thee bean’t up to
Lunnun ways: there be thieves and murderers, and what not.”
“Thieves and murderers!”
“And Joe, doan’t ee git out o’ nights; if anything ’appened to thee, thy old mother ’ud brak her ’art.”
“Look ee ’ere,” said Joe, “I bean’t got nuthin’ to lose, so I bean’t afeared o’ thieves.”
“No, but thee might git into trouble, thee might be led away.”