One cool-clouded day in early September, Bettesworth was clearing a patch of ground of some peas that had been growing there. There was something in common between the old man and the season; both, as it were, quietly declining from their summer, yet still full of vigour and not quite destitute of hope. The thin sound of the dry old voice was filled out by the rustle of the dead pea-haulm and the occasional rattle of peas loose in their pods. But we did not speak of the work: the talk was started by my reference to the recent misfortune of one of our neighbours, who had lost a cow.

“Ah,” says Bettesworth, “they do have some luck, don't 'em? Lost a heifer 'ere, see, not s' very long agoo; 'n then there was that old sow; an' now a cow again—'pon my word they do 'ave some bad luck, an' no mistake.”

“It seems bad,” I muttered, “when people work hard for their living.”

“Ah, 'tis bad for a poor man; after he've worked an' tried, to go an' have bad luck like that 'ere.” He paused; and then, “But I reckon as how that was great neglects on their part t' let that cow goo like that.”