I have grouped together this and the six following chapters, because they give some idea, however chaotic, of the way in which Bettesworth's manhood was spent. To any sort of chronological sequence they do not pretend. I have never succeeded in disentangling the various periods to which the old man will make easy allusion in five short minutes of gossip. And, indeed, it seems of small moment, whether he was driving Mr. Brown's cart before or after he was scaffolding for Mr. Cooper, or cleaning out a well for some other employer; the real interest being rather in his excellent versatility in usefulness. “Astonishing,” I was about to call it; only I remember this and that young man in the village who would be found equally capable to-day, if one did but know. Like them, Bettesworth in his prime was ready for any task that came to hand: and the harder the work, the more he rejoiced in his strength to wrestle with it. For thirty years—or forty is nearer the truth—he lived this varied life, careless, confident, and strong; and now that his strength is waning, there are many memories for him to ponder over, and to chatter to me about, when I am sympathetic enough to hear.