But it is good that we are compelled to see some things, life amongst the rest, to what we call the end of them.

By degrees Gibbie's sight cleared; the old man faded away; and what was left of him he could see to be only an armful of straw.
The next sheaf they threw down, he perceived, under their blows, the corn flying out of it, and began to understand a little.

When it was finished, the corn that had flown dancing from its home, like hail from its cloud, was swept aside to the common heap, and the straw tossed up on the mound that harboured Gibbie.

It was well that the man with the pitchfork did not spy his eyes peering out from the midst of the straw: he might have taken him for some wild creature, and driven the prongs into him.

As it was, Gibbie did not altogether like the look of him, and lay still as a stone.