"He was a gardener and florist,"--she answered, and taking from the mantelshelf the photograph of the old man smiling serenely amid a collection of dwarf and standard roses, she showed it to him--"Here he is, just as he was taken after an exhibition where he won a prize. He was so proud when he heard that the first prize for a dwarf red rose had been awarded to James Deane of Barnstaple. My dear old dad! He was a good, good man--he was indeed! He loved the flowers--he used to say that they thought and dreamed and hoped, just as we do--and that they had their wishes and loves and ambitions just as we have. He had a very good business once in Barnstaple, and every one respected him, but somehow he could not keep up with the demands for new things--'social sensations in the way of flowers,' he used to call them, and he failed at last, through no fault of his own. We sold all we had to pay the creditors, and then we came away from Barnstaple into Somerset, and took this cottage. Father did a little business in the village, and for some of the big houses round about,--not much, of course--but I was always handy with my needle, and by degrees I got a number of customers for lace-mending and getting up ladies' fine lawn and muslin gowns. So between us we made quite enough to live on--till he died." Her voice sank--and she paused--then she added--"I've lived alone here ever since." He listened attentively. "And that is all your history, Mary? What of your mother?" he asked. Mary's eyes softened and grew wistful. "Mother died when I was ten,"--she said--"But though I was so little, I remember her well. She was pretty--oh, so very pretty! Her hair was quite gold like the sun,--and her eyes were blue--like the sea. Dad worshipped her, and he never would say that she was dead. He liked to think that she was always with him,--and I daresay she was. Indeed, I am sure she was, if true love can keep souls together." He was silent. "Are you tired, David?" she asked, with sudden anxiety,--"I'm afraid I'm talking too much!" He raised a hand in protest. "No--no! I--I love to hear you talk, Mary! You have been so good to me--so more than kind--that I'd like to know all about you. But I've no right to ask you any questions--you see I'm only an old, poor man, and I'm afraid I shall never be able to do much in the way of paying you back for all you've done for me. I used to be clever at office work--reading and writing and casting up accounts, but my sight is failing and my hands tremble,--so I'm no good in that line. But whatever I _can_ do for you, as soon as I'm able, I will!--you may depend upon that!" She leaned towards him, smiling. "I'll teach you basket-making,"--she said--"Shall I?" His eyes lit up with a humorous sparkle. "If I could learn it, should I be useful to you?" he asked.