Maniwel Drake (the greater number of his acquaintances did not know that his name figured as Emmanuel in the parish register, and he himself had almost forgotten it), was not to be numbered with these dullards. A man of the moors, whose ancestors on both sides for generations back had been moorland folk, the air of the uplands was to him the best of tonics, sweeping over his soul no less than his body, and containing what the old physiologists called “a hidden food of life.” No gale, however wild, had ever been able to pierce the defences of his hardy frame and undermine his constitution, and he had long ago shaken off the ill-results of the accident which, by reason of the light regard in which he had held it, had well-nigh cost him his life. With his one arm he could do more work than many could accomplish with two; but until now he had been content to lend a hand when and where it was needed, and his earnings had been precarious, which would have mattered more, if his wants had not been few. His whitewashed cottage neighboured with the little one-arched bridge that spanned the stream, and its tiny panes gathered the greater part of the sun’s rays, for they faced east and south, and as they looked down the valley with no nearer obstruction than hills that were miles distant the house was always so bright that a speck of dust had not the faintest chance to escape Hannah’s observant eyes. It was because the house was sunny and close to the laughter-loving stream that Maniwel had chosen it. It harmonised with his nature. He was thinking of Jagger and the new scheme as he leaned against the parapet of the bridge, with the sun’s rosy beams playing about his uncovered head like an incipient halo—particularly of Jagger, and of Jagger’s mother on whose vitals some slow cancerous disease had fixed its wolfish teeth some months before the lad’s birth, tearing at her strength and leaving her for the rest of her weary life querulous and spiritless who up to then had known neither ache nor pain. It was Jagger’s misfortune to have been born with a weight on his spirits which it was as difficult to dislodge as the Old Man of the Sea from the shoulders of Sindbad—it is not only the sins of parents that are visited on the children: often it is their sorrows. Like Naaman the Syrian, Jagger combined with many excellencies one outstanding defect—he was a good workman, skilful, painstaking and conscientious, and he was a creditable member of the community; but he was a grumbler.