It was seldom that any one passed her cottage, and when he saw it he was distressed and ashamed that he had not done anything for her before.
Jennifer had just got home, tired and wet and cold. He came into the cheerless place and sat down.
"I had no idea that your cottage was in such a wretched state, Jennifer; I wonder you could live in it," he began.
"Well, 'tis wonderful how comfortable we do get on in it, sir." And Jennifer spoke as cheerfully as ever. "I s'pose if it was better we should have to pay more, so we must set one thing against another, you know."
"Well, I am going to build you another—a new one; I have made up my mind to that. And look, Jennifer, you shall have it for your own as soon as I can get it up, and you can pay me for it."
"I daresay, sir," laughed Jennifer, and she wondered that her friend could seem to joke on such a subject.
"But I mean it," said he, "and, of course, I am going to put you in the way to do it."
"Thank you, sir," said Jennifer, quite unable to see any meaning in the promise. "You see, there's the Guardians, what will they say and all if I do go living in a fine new house?"
"The Guardians! Oh, you must go and tell them that you don't want any more of their money or their loaf either."
"But, sir," said Jennifer, trying to laugh, yet almost too bewildered to succeed, "half crowns and loaves of bread won't grow out of a new house any more than an old one, you know."