“I thank him!  Take my bag, boy, and I’ll follow in half an hour.”

Sarah brought out the bag and opened it, and, weeping bitterly, put into it a bottle with her name on a bit of paper tied round the neck, to remind poor George he was not forgotten at “The Grove,” and then she gave George the key and went sadly in, her apron to her eyes.

And now George fixed his eye on his brother William, and said to him, “Wilham, will you come with me, if you please?”

“Ay, George, sure.”

They went through the farmyard side by side; neither spoke, and George took a last look at the ricks, and he paused, and seemed minded to speak, but he did not, he only muttered “not here.”  Then George led the way out into the paddock, and so into the lane, and very soon they saw the village church.  William wondered George did not speak.  They passed under the yewtree into the churchyard.  William’s heart fluttered.  They found the vicar’s cow browsing on the graves.  William took up a stone.  George put out his hand not to let him hurt her, and George turned her gently into the lane; then he stepped carefully among the graves.  William followed him, his heart fluttering more and more with vague fears.  William knew now where they were going, but what was George going to say to him there? his heart beat faint-like.  By-and-by the brothers came to this—­

[Drawing of Grave]

The grave was between the two men—­and silence—­both looked down.

George whispered, “Good-by, mother!  She never thought we should be parted this way.”  Then he turned to William and opened his mouth to say something more to him; doubtless that which he had come to say, but apparently it was too much for him.  I think he feared his own resolution.  He gasped and with a heavy sigh led the way home.  William walked with him, not knowing what to think or do or say; at last he muttered, “I wouldn’t go, if my heart was here!”

“I shall go, Will,” replied George, rather sternly as it seemed.

When they came back to the house they found several persons collected.

Old Fielding, the young men’s grandfather, was there; he had made them wheel him in his great chair out into the sun.

Grandfather Fielding had reached the last stage of human existence.  He was ninety-two years of age.  The lines in his face were cordage, his aspect was stony and impassible, and he was all but impervious to passing events; his thin blood had almost ceased to circulate in his extremities; for every drop he had was needed to keep his old heart a-beating at all, instead of stopping like a clock that has run down.

Meadows had returned to see George off, and old Merton was also there, and he was one of those whose hearts gave them a bit of a twinge.

“George,” said he, “I’m vexed for speaking unkind to you to-day of all days in the year; I didn’t think we were to part so soon, lad.”