“And you’ve been many a long year with them too,” observed Miss Christie.

“Ay, ma’am.  Some folks air allers for change, but I’ve known when I was well off and they’ve known when they were well off.”  Mr. Swan said this in a somewhat pragmatical tone, and continued, “There’s nothing but a long course of just dealing and respect o’ both sides as can buy such digging as this here family gets out of my spade.”

“Very true,” said Miss Christie, who did not appear to see anything peculiar in this self-eulogy.

“But some folks forget,” continued Mr. Swan, “that transplanted trees won’t grow the first year, and others want too much for their money, and too good of its kind; but fair and softly, thinks I; you can’t buy five shillings with threepence-halfpenny in any shop that I ever heerd of; and when you’ve earned half-a-crown you can’t be paid it in gold.”

The next morning, while Peter sat at breakfast revolving in his mind the delights he had lost, and wondering what Janie and Bertie and Hugh and Nancy were about, these staunch little friends of his were unconsciously doing the greatest damage to his future prospects—­to their most important part, as he understood them, namely, his chance of coming to see the Mortimers again.

Miss Christie Grant always presided over the school-room breakfast, and John Mortimer, unless he had other visitors, breakfasted alone, generally coming down just after his children’s meal was over, and having a selection of them with him morning by morning.

On this occasion, just as he came down, his children darted out of the window, exclaiming, “Oh, there’s Mr. Brandon down the garden—­Mr. Brandon’s come.”

John walked to the window, and looked out with a certain scrutinising interest; for it was but a few weeks since a somewhat important visitor had left old Daniel Mortimer’s house—­one concerning whom the neighbourhood had decided that she certainly ought to become Mrs. Giles Brandon, and that it would be an odd thing if Mr. Brandon did not think so.  If he did, there was every appearance that she did not, for she had gone away all but engaged to his young brother Valentine.

“He looks dull, decidedly dull, since Miss Graham left them,” soliloquised John Mortimer.  “I thought so the last time I saw him, and now I am sure of it.  Poor fellow,” he continued with a half smile.  “I can hardly fancy him a lover, but, if he does care for that graceful little sea-nymph, it is hard on him that such a shallow-pated boy as Valentine should stand in his light;” and he stepped out to meet his guest, who was advancing in the midst of the children, while at the same time they shouted up at the open schoolroom window that Nancy must come down directly and see her godfather.

The grand lady-governess looked out in a becoming morning costume.

“A fine young man,” she remarked to Miss Christie Grant.

“Yes, that’s my oldest nephew, St. George they call him.  Giles Brandon is his name, but his mother aye disliked the name of Giles, thought it was only fit for a ploughman.  So she called him St. George, and that’s what he is now, and will be.”