Three score and ten did not seem the limit of his working days; he still could and would hoe—­a bowed back is no impediment, but perhaps rather an advantage, at that occupation.  He could use a prong in the haymaking; he could reap a little, and do good service tying up the cut corn.  There were many little jobs on the farm that required experience, combined with the plodding patience of age, and these he could do better than a stronger man.  The years went round again, and yet he worked.  Indeed, the farther back a man’s birth dates in the beginning of the present century the more he seems determined to labour.  He worked on till every member of his family had gone, most to their last home, and still went out at times when the weather was not too severe.  He worked on, and pottered round the garden, and watched the young green plums swelling on his trees, and did a bit of gleaning, and thought the wheat would weigh bad when it was threshed out.

Presently people began to bestir themselves, and to ask whether there was no one to take care of the old man, who might die from age and none near.  Where were his own friends and relations?  One strong son had enlisted and gone to India, and though his time had expired long ago, nothing had ever been heard of him.  Another son had emigrated to Australia, and once sent back a present of money, and a message, written for him by a friend, that he was doing well.  But of late, he, too, had dropped out of sight.  Of three daughters who grew up, two were known to be dead, and the third was believed to be in New Zealand.  The old man was quite alone.  He had no hope and no joy, yet he was almost happy in a slow unfeeling way wandering about the garden and the cottage.  But in the winter his half-frozen blood refused to circulate, his sinews would not move his willing limbs, and he could not work.

His case came before the Board of Guardians.  Those who knew all about him wished to give him substantial relief in his own cottage, and to appoint some aged woman as nurse—­a thing that is occasionally done, and most humanely.  But there were technical difficulties in the way; the cottage was either his own or partly his own, and relief could not be given to any one possessed of ‘property’ Just then, too, there was a great movement against, out-door relief; official circulars came round warning Boards to curtail it, and much fuss was made.  In the result the old man was driven into the workhouse; muttering and grumbling, he had to be bodily carried to the trap, and thus by physical force was dragged from his home.  In the workhouse there is of necessity a dead level of monotony—­there are many persons but no individuals.  The dining-hall is crossed with forms and narrow tables, somewhat resembling those formerly used in schools.  On these at dinner-time are placed a tin mug and a tin soup-plate for each person; every mug and every plate exactly alike.  When the unfortunates have taken their places, the master pronounces grace from an elevated desk at the end of the hall.