Joseph Smiley lived in a small cottage all by himself. It was not on the main street, but built in what should have been the back yard of a house on that thoroughfare, and was approached by a narrow passage round the end of the house in front. It was just the place for any one who desired retirement, being extremely private, which, strangely enough, seems the great desideratum of all inquisitive people. Joseph was extremely expert in spelling out the affairs of his neighbours from external signs, and it may have been owing to that, that he kept his own life so studiously in the shade, knowing so well how much may be divined from passing glimpses. He spoke of his home as 'juist the bit placey whaur he bed,' 'weel eneugh for a quiet lanesome chield like himsel', but no' fit to tak folk til,' which was scarcely doing it justice, seeing that it was perhaps the snuggest little cabin in the village; for Joseph was a Sybarite according to his lights. It was the best feather bed in the village on which he took his nightly rest, and there was a comfortably cushioned chair or two in which he might repose during the day. The cupboard contained pickles, spices, and a good many bottles; for his fare was dainty, and far different from the vigorous parritch on which he professed to subsist. Parritch may be said to have been the food of his imagination, for he continually spoke of it, but it was with something considerably more succulent that he nourished his material frame. Yet Joseph enjoyed a high reputation for saving thrift. This was owing to the fierceness of his principles, his tenacity in holding them, and the vigour with which he carried them out. There is nothing in the world so helpful as a clear understanding between a man and himself as to what it really is which he wants, and a consistent pertinacity in meaning to have it; and yet it seems even rarer than the self-knowledge so highly recommended. Think of the force wasted in desultory effort for the attainment of what is really not desired! Joseph's principles might all have been resolved into one, and that was to take care of Joseph Smiley. Nothing was too good for that cherished person, so he got the lead; and as nobody else ever got anything at all, it was not more costly than an unprincipled life of impulse, and much more comfortable to the beloved object. Had his brother man been allowed to dip with him in the dish, both must have contented themselves with plain fare, but by letting the brother forage elsewhere, a smaller and choicer mess would be enough for the rest of the party. When Joseph went out in the morning he locked his door and handed the key to Peggy Mathieson, his neighbour, whom he employed to make his bed, cook his meals, and 'do' for him generally. Peggy was a lone widow, who supplied the youth of the village with bullseyes and marbles. She was discreet and silent, asked no questions and told no tales, and knew how to make him comfortable.