He was a retired builder in a small way who, by dint of thrift and self-denial, had accumulated enough capital to bring him in an income sufficient for their needs, but allowing no margin for luxuries. A plain, homely man who looked exactly what he was, a small, thrifty tradesman with no pretensions to education or refinement, but not aggressively common. His habits were regular; about twice a week he looked in at the Brinkstone Arms, took a modest glass of ale, and chatted with the landlord and the other customers. He had a nice little piece of ground attached to his cottage, and, being passionately fond of gardening, spent most of his time in it. The daughter was a refined edition of her father, not a lady like Lettice Larchester, but a very good imitation of one, and fairly well educated. The girls soon got to know each other and quickly became great friends, constantly in and out of each other’s houses, and taking long walks together in the fine weather. “It must have been a boon and a blessing to both of them, sir,” remarked Mr. Dobbs, “for although you could see with half an eye Miss Buckley was not of the other one’s class, she was miles above the ordinary folk about here. And naturally there are lots of things a girl can only talk about with another girl. Of course, Buckley was a selfish old man or he wouldn’t have buried his daughter alive in such a place as this. You see, he was so wrapped up in his gardening that time never grew heavy on his hands. What with cauliflowers, peas, French beans and the other vegetables—and he was a fine gardener—the days flew by to him; there was always something to be looked after, always something coming up.” They were certainly much better off than the Larchesters. Their cottage was quite a roomy, comfortable little dwelling, they kept a small resident maid, and lived upon the best. Alma Buckley was a good-looking girl, rather of the buxom and dairymaid type, and just a little bit loud in comparison with her refined friend. But neither was in a position to pick and choose; they had to accept what companionship came their way, and it was fortunate they met with each other. The Larchesters left at the end of four years; the Buckleys remained behind. The soil suited Mr. Buckley’s gardening propensities, and so long as he could grow excellent peas and beans he had no desire to shift his quarters. Six months later death claimed the old man. His demise was caused by his devotion to his hobby. He would insist on digging the ground in a pouring rain, with the result that he caught a violent chill, pneumonia supervened and carried him off within the week. As soon as he was buried the daughter shook the dust of Brinkstone off her feet; she had been profoundly unhappy ever since the Larchesters had left.