Mr. Welsh was a worthy man, eminently respectable, a good husband, and a kind friend. He was truthful, honest, reliable in his family and social relations, but professionally unscrupulous. The sea-line stood in its old place on one side of his character, but on another a wide tract, that tract on which he grew his harvest, had been reclaimed from the waves of conscience. It is so with a good many others besides Mr. Welsh, and in a good many other trades and professions than journalism and politics. We are conscientious in every department except that of money-making, and in that we allow of tricks and meannesses, which we excuse to ourselves as forced on us by the exigencies of competition. Recently Mr. Welsh had been slightly indisposed, so he came from town into the country, on a holiday, to spend the Sunday with his sister, and then run on to see a congenial friend in a town in the same county. In the afternoon he took a stroll by himself in the woods, smoking his pipe, and, always with an eye to business, looking about him for material for an article. “Halloo!” said Mr. Welsh, halting in front of the ruinous cottage of Patience Kite. “What have we here? Does any one inhabit this tumble-down concern?” He went to the door and looked in. Patience faced him. “What do you want? Who are you? This is my house, and I will not be turned out of it.” She took him for a sanitary officer, or a lawyer, come to enforce her expulsion. “This is a queer hole for a lady to occupy as her boudoir,” said Mr. Welsh, taking his pipe out of his mouth. “I wouldn’t care for this style of thing myself except as a drawing copy. Not to become a hero of romance, or to give my experience in a magazine article would I sleep under that chimney on a stormy night.” “Nobody has invited you,” said Patience, blocking her door. “And pray, madam, whose house is this? Is this the sort of cottage my lord provides for his tenants?” “The house is mine.” “Copyhold or freehold?” “I pay a ground rent for it of two shillings; it is mine for life, and then it falls to his lordship.” “I should expect it would fall altogether to you shortly. Why don’t you do it up?” “How can I? I am poor.” “I suppose that you are bound by the terms of the lease to maintain the house in repair?” “I dare say. The agent, Mr. Macduff, has threatened me; but no one can make me do it when I haven’t a shilling. You can’t make one dance who is born without legs.”