That, at least, is a comfort to the old folk.
It is, however, doubtful whether the old man, as he walks down the lane with his hands behind his back and the dead leaves driven by the November breeze rustling after, has much feeling of any kind left.

Hard work and adversity have probably deadened his finer senses.

Else one would think he could never endure to work as a servant upon that farm of all others, nor to daily pass the scenes of his youth.

For yonder, well in sight as he turns a corner of the lane, stands the house where he dwelt so many, many years; where the events of his life came slowly to pass; where he was born; where his bride came home; where his children were born, and from whose door he went forth penniless.
Seeing this every day, surely that old man, if he have but one spark of feeling left, must drink the lees of poverty to the last final doubly bitter dregs..