Mr. Osborn said that old Bates had given his landlord notice, and he was leaving his cottage almost immediately.  The matter had been brought to the pastor’s knowledge because one of the Baptist congregation thought of taking the cottage, and had asked Mr. Osborn’s advice.

Other people, who professed to know more than Mr. Osborn, said it was true that Bates had given notice, but it was also true that he owed two quarters’ rent and that the landlord was determined to have his money.  To this end everything the cottage contained would be seized and sold.  And what would happen to Mr. Bates when not only his house was gone, but all his sticks of furniture too?

“It do seem a pity he ben’t a young orphan female instead of a wore-out old man, for then he cud move on into Barradine Home and be fed on the best for naught.”

The cottage and other cottages about Otterford Mill, although close to the Abbey estate, did not belong to it.  They were the property of various small owners, and Bates’ landlord, as Dale knew, was a tradesman at Old Manninglea.

Dale, having heard the news on a Sunday evening, put his check-book in his pocket very early next morning and rode over the heath to the market town.  There he saw Bates’ landlord, readily obtained leave to withdraw the notice, cleared off the arrears, and paid rent for a year in advance.  Then he rode straight to Otterford Mill.

“Good morning, William.  Pray come in.  But will your horse stand quiet there?”

“Oh, yes, sir.  He’ll stand quiet enough.  Only too glad of the chance to stand.  I keep him moving, you know.”

“Don’t he ever get jerking at the rein, and break his bridle?”

“If he did he wouldn’t run away.  He’d be too ashamed of himself for what he’d done.”

“Then step inside, William,” said Mr. Bates once more.

He ushered Dale into a bare, sad-looking room; and the whole cottage smelled of nakedness, famine, misery.

“Now, my dear old friend,” said Dale cheerily, “what’s all this whispering that reaches my ears in re you thinking of changing your quarters and leaving us?”

“It’s the truth, William.  I can’t afford these premises any longer.”

“Oh, come, we can’t have that.  We haven’t so many friends that we can put up with losing the one we value most of all.”

Then he told Mr. Bates what he had done at Manninglea.

The old man frowned, flushed, and began to tremble.

“You shouldn’t ‘a’ done that, William.  It was a liberty.  I must write and say my notice holds good.”

Then there was a brief but most painful conversation, Dale nearly shedding tears while he pleaded to be allowed on this one occasion to act as banker, and Bates resolutely refusing help, refusing even to admit how much help was needed.

“William,” he said obdurately, “I recognize your kind intention—­but you’ve made a mistake.  You shouldn’t have done it, without a word to me.  I can only repeat, it was a liberty.”