But the Major was too old and ill to be able to live alone much longer, even with such help as the children’s mother and other kind neighbours could give. The day came when the doctor called in the relieving officer. The old man was seriously ill; he had no relatives. There was only one place where he could be properly looked after, and that was the workhouse infirmary. They were right in their decision. He was not able to look after himself; he had no relatives or friends able to undertake the responsibility; the workhouse was the best place for him. But they made one terrible mistake. They were dealing with a man of intelligence and spirit, and they treated him as they might have done one in the extreme of senile decay. They did not consult him or tell him what they had decided; but ordered the carrier’s cart to call at his house the next morning and wait at a short distance while they, in the doctor’s gig, drove up to his door. When they entered, the Major had just dressed and dragged himself to his chair by the fire. “It’s a nice morning, and we’ve come to take you for a drive,” announced the doctor cheerfully, and, in spite of his protests, they hustled on his coat and had him out and in the carrier’s cart in a very few minutes.

Laura saw the carrier touch up his horse with the whip and the cart turn, and she always wished afterwards she had not, for, as soon as he realized where he was being taken, the old soldier, the independent old bachelor, the kind family friend, collapsed and cried like a child. He was beaten. But not for long. Before six weeks were over he was back in the parish and all his troubles were over, for he came in his coffin.