From the lips of old George, who was garrulous enough on most
subjects, he tried again and again to learn something of the
nature of the offence which shut him off as a creature to be
shunned and hated by his fellow-men.
"What do the folk around here say about me?" he asked one day as
they were walking home from an outlying field.
The old man shook his head.
"They be bitter agen you, mortal bitter. Aye, 'tis a sad
business, a sad business."
And never could he be got to say anything more enlightening.
On a clear frosty evening, a few days before the festival of
Christmas, Stoner stood in a corner of the orchard which commanded
a wide view of the countryside. Here and there he could see the
twinkling dots of lamp or candle glow which told of human homes
where the goodwill and jollity of the season held their sway.
Behind him lay the grim, silent farm-house, where no one ever
laughed, where even a quarrel would have seemed cheerful. As he
turned to look at the long grey front of the gloom-shadowed
building, a door opened and old George came hurriedly forth.
Stoner heard his adopted name called in a tone of strained
anxiety. Instantly he knew that something untoward had happened,
and with a quick revulsion of outlook his sanctuary became in his
eyes a place of peace and contentment, from which he dreaded to be
driven.
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