"Ah, yes, poor dear," sighed Mr. Tiddy. "Though I don't know why I should pity her," he proceeded, "for she's as happy as the day is long. Her father—he's the organist of St. John's in the East End of London—calls her 'little Sunbeam,' and the name just suits her. Her mother and my wife were school friends, and—but here we are!"
The stranger was evidently much gratified by the sight of the flowers, and she was greatly impressed by the knowledge Peggy evinced concerning them. And the more she conversed with Mr. Tiddy, the more gracious her manner became, till by-and-by she asked him if there were comfortable lodgings to be had in the neighbourhood.
"There's a farm higher up the hill, the adjoining farm to this, Higher Brimley it's called—where they let apartments during the summer months," he replied. "I expect they'd consider themselves fortunate, if they obtained a lodger as early in the year as this. Ford, the people are called, and Mrs. Ford is a nice, respectable woman who'd make you very comfortable."
"You never take lodgers here?" the stranger inquired hesitatingly.
"Never," was the decisive answer. "My wife has plenty of work to do in connection with the poultry and the dairy, and—to be plain—we like our home to ourselves."
When the lady had gazed her fill at the daffodils, Mr. Tiddy led the way into the garden, which she declared to be her idea of what a country garden should be. The kindly farmer, pleased at her admiration for his belongings, thereupon invited her into the house, and had tea brought into the parlour. "I wish my wife was at home," he observed regretfully, "but Peggy must play hostess in her place."
"And a very nice little hostess she makes," replied the old lady, her curious gaze upon the child, who was offering her some of Mrs. Tiddy's home-made cake. "Do you always treat strangers as you are treating me?" she inquired, turning to Mr. Tiddy again. "I have heard of Cornish hospitality, but I never believed in it till now. You don't know anything about me—" She paused and laughed rather bitterly, then added: "Most people would not think it worth while to entertain a stranger—one never likely to cross their path in life again."
"Then you do not mean to seek lodgings in the district?" Mr. Tiddy asked gravely.
"I have not made up my mind on that point yet. I almost think I could be contented in a spot like this."
Having finished her tea, she rose and prepared to depart. Mr. Tiddy now noted for the first time, how costly was her dress—evidently she was a woman rich in this world's goods—and he thought as he glanced at the deep lines of discontent around her hard mouth, that, in spite of her undeniably handsome face, she was the most ill-tempered looking old lady he had seen for many a long day, and doubted much if she would be contented anywhere.