He was flinging his own and Trevelyan's muddy boots into the big basket which stood in the scullery, on Monday evening, when a low voice close at hand startled him.
"Please, Master Brady, if you have a minute to spare, I should like to speak to you."
Jack turned round in surprise, to face his friend of Saturday, the housemaid.
"Why, certainly. Fire away! I'm all attention."
"I hope you won't think me foolish, sir, but you—you do seem sympithetic like, though you can't help me, I know; and yet you told me to come to you, and it's a relief to out with one's trouble; and Emma, she don't understand, because she's going to be married, and she don't think of nothin' else; and Cook, she says she's never 'ad nothin' to do with plants, not excep' the eatin' sorts, like cabbages and turnips—"
"But, Hannah, you haven't given me a chance yet. Plants?" said Jack.
"Yes, sir; I'll tell you all about it if I may. You see, my 'ome's at Brickland—that's a matter of four miles from Elmridge,—and my father, he's steadily wastin', and doctor says there's no chance for him, not unless he gets to one of the hopen-air 'ospitals, and he's not to doddle about the green-'ouse any more."
"That's a bad business," said Jack, looking grave. "Then your father has been a gardener?"
"Yes, and a salesman in a small way, sir. But now he's to give up, and sell all the plants. Doctor says he'll never again be fit for that work. It's goin' in and out of the cold and the heat and the damp that's so tryin'. He's been holdin' on as long as he could, but now he's ready enough to part with 'em, and if only he could get a good price it'd maybe take 'im to the hopen-air, and help to keep the 'ome together till he's well."
"That sounds the wisest plan," observed Jack thoughtfully.