It was on a bright autumn morning that
I started off to Louth on my last visit to the
Savings Bank. I had given notice a fortnight
before that I was about to draw out the
whole sum, for I thought we should require
the other ten pounds for the expenses of
moving and settling down in the shop. I
well remember how glad, and I fear proud,
I felt to think how large a sum I had saved
out of my small earnings. How often the
thought of that hoard had prevented my
yielding to the temptation of turning into the
public-house as I passed it with my flock on a
scorching dusty day. And now I was to reap
the reward of my thrift, my self-denial, my
forty years' toil! The long road seemed as
nothing; my mind was so occupied with
vain-glorious thoughts of the past, and pleasing
hopes for the remainder of my days, that I
was in Louth before I was aware of it. The
Savings Bank was only open on Saturday
mornings, so that there were a great many
people paying in or receiving money, and I
had to wait some time.

While standing outside the door, I was
accosted by Giles Davies, a shepherd in the
county whom I had often met at cattle fairs.
I did not like him much, he was an ignorant
abusive fellow, and too fond by half of the
public-house; but on that morning I was too
happy to be otherwise than cordial with
anybody. I was surprised to see him there,
for he was not of a saving turn of mind, but
it turned out that his wife had laid by some
money unknown to him, and he, having
discovered it, had come to draw it out. After
a while the room got more empty, and Davies
and I went up to the gentleman who gave
out the money together. I was proud to see
Davies's astonishment at my possession of so
large a sum, and was not sorry to have some
one to show off my wealth to. So I readily
came into his proposition that we should get
our bit of dinner, and walk home afterwards
together, as he had to go my way.

We did not get our dinner till three o'clock,
so we started off directly afterwards, for I
had a twelve miles' walk before me, and
wished to get home before dark.

It grew dusk when we had got within
about three miles of home, and Davies
proposed that we should take a cut through the
fields, which we could do by climbing over a
gate, though there was no regular footpath.
I hesitated at first, but as I was very tired,
and we could certainly save a mile and more
by going across country, I gave in. When
we had crossed two fields we were stopped by
a hedge, through a gap in which we had to
creep. It was now quite dusk. Davies got
through first, and I was following him, when
suddenly, as my hands were engaged in
putting by the twigs, he turned, and struck me
a blow on the side of the head with a stick
he carried, which brought me half stunned to
the ground. He struck me on the head again,
again, again! and I lost all consciousness.

It was pitch dark when I recovered my
senses, and then my first impulse was to feel for
my money. It was gone! The hard-earned
savings of nearly forty years, every penny
won by its drop of sweat, stolen, lost, gone!

I do not remember how I got home: I
managed to crawl to the cottage door somehow.
Mary shrieked with terror when she
opened it, and saw me on the threshold looking
so wild, so despair-stricken, so covered with
blood. "Never mind me, Mary," I groaned;
"the sooner I die the better. I have been
robbed, Mary, robbed of all!" But Mary
thought more of my hurts than of the money,
and yet how we had both counted on it!

It was several weeks before I recovered the
effect of the blows on my head, aggravated as
the fever was by despair. I got over it, however,
and went about my work again, Mr.
Wyham not having been able to supply my
place as yet. We lived in hopes that Davies
would be caught; but no, he contrived to
make clear off with his booty, and it was
supposed he had escaped out of the country.

I worked on for five years longer, growing
more and more infirm every year.

I have not got much more to tell. When
I have transcribed word for word what passed
one morning two years ago between myself
and Mr. Wyham in his study, I have done.

"Take a seat, Ned," began Mr. Wyham;
"I fear your asthma is very troublesome."

"It is, sir."

"You seem to suffer from that lameness."

"It is very painful, sir."

"It hinders you in your work."

" It was got by hard work for you, sir."

"It is a very bad job. You are old, too."

"Fifty-five last January."

"You must see yourself that I cannot afford
to keep servants on my farm who cannot do
their work."

"Very true, sir."

"I have been looking about for another
shepherd, and have met with a man whom I
think likely to suit me, but you need not
turn out of your cottage—"

"God bless you, sir, I knew—"

"—till Saturday week. You must see,
Spencer, I am sure, that with so few cottages
on my farm I cannot afford to have any but
able-bodied men in them."

"What am I to do, sir? Where am I
to go?"

"I am afraid, to the workhouse."
*     *     *     *    *

They let Mary and me see each other in the
workhouse sometimes.