Kneeling in the road, Abel lifted the horse’s foot, and felt for the injury with a practised hand.

“Needs a bandage,” he said at last curtly.  “I happen to have a bottle of liniment in the gig.”

The light glided like a winged insect over the strip of corduroy road, and a minute later the pungent odour of the liniment floated to Gay’s nostrils.

“Give me anything you have for a compress,” remarked the miller, dropping again on his knees.  “Pick a few of those Jimson weeds by the fence and lend me your handkerchief—­or a couple of them would be still better.  There, now, that’s the best I can do,” he added after a moment.  “Lead him slowly and be sure to look where you’re going.”

“I will, thank you—­but can you find your way without the lantern?”

“Hannah can travel the road in the dark and so can I for that matter.  You needn’t thank me, by the way.  I wouldn’t have troubled about you, but I’ve a liking for horses.”

“A jolly good thing it was for me that you came up at the instant.  I say, Revercomb, I’m sorry it was your brother I got into a row with this morning.”

“Oh, that’s another score.  We haven’t settled it yet,” retorted the Miller, as he stepped into his gig.  “You’ve warned us off your land, so I’ll trouble you to keep to the turnpike and avoid the bridle path that passes my pasture.”

Before Gay could reply, the other had whistled to his mare and was spinning over the flat road into the star-spangled distance.

When the miller reached home and entered the kitchen, his mother’s first words related to the plight of Archie, who sat sullenly nursing his bruised mouth in one corner.

“If you’ve got any of the Hawtrey blood in yo’ veins you’ll take sides with the po’ boy,” she said.  “Thar’s Abner settin’ over thar so everlastin’ mealy mouthed that he won’t say nothin’ mo’ to the p’int than that he knew all the time it would happen.”

“Well, that’s enough, ain’t it?” growled Abner; “I did know it would happen sure enough from the outset.”

“Thar ain’t any rousin’ him,” observed Sarah, with scorn.  “I declar, I believe pa over thar has got mo’ sperit in him even if he does live mostly on cornmeal mush.”

“Plenty of sperit in me—­plenty of sperit,” chirped grandfather, alert as an aged sparrow that still contrives to hop stiffly in the sunshine.

“Oh, yes, he’s sperit left in him, though he’s three years older than I am,” remarked grandmother, with bitterness. “He ain’t wo’ out with work and with child bearin’ befo’ he was ninety. He ain’t bald, he ain’t toothless,” she concluded passionately, as if each of grandfather’s blessings were an additional insult to her.  “He can still eat hard food when he wants it.”

“For pity’s sake, be quiet, ma,” commanded Sarah sternly, at which the old woman broke into sobs.

“Yes, I must be quiet, but he can still talk,” she moaned.