Jim Urquhart’s, of course.  Jim—­as ineligible for the most coveted post in the Western District as he well could be, by reason of the family already depending upon him, together with the load of debt left along with it by his deceased father, a “pal” of Mr Pennycuick’s in the gay and good old times—­still contrived to bring himself within the radius of Deborah’s observation whenever occasion served.  And being there, although silent and keeping to the background, his gaze followed her as the gaze of an opossum follows a light on a dark night, with the same still absorption.  Nothing but her returning gaze could divert it from its mark.  It was so natural, so calmly customary, so unobtrusive, that nobody cared to attach importance to it.

He sat now, far back against the green brocade hangings of a corner window, where he could see the beloved profile in the middle of the room.  His big, work-roughened hands clasped his big, bony knees, and his long, loose body hung forward out of the little chair that was never built for such as he; and he seemed given over to Rose Pennycuick’s tale of the pony that had corns, and the cat that had been mangled in a cruel rabbit trap.  He gave her wise counsel regarding the treatment of these poor things, his deep, drawling voice an unnoticed instrument in the orchestra of tongues; but his crude-featured, sunburnt face held itself steadily in the one direction.  From the day that he came to manhood his soul had kept the same attitude towards the woman to whom the profile belonged.  But he never alluded to the fact, save in this silent way.

Then there was the Reverend Bennet Goldsworthy, “Church of England minister”, as his style and title ran.  Privately, Mr Pennycuick did not like him; but for the sake of the priestly office, and as being a parishioner, he gave him the freedom of the house, and much besides.  The parson’s buggy never went empty away.  Redford hams, vegetables, poultry, butter and eggs, etc., kept his larder supplied.  His horse-feed was derived therefrom; also his horse; also his cow.  When his cow began to fail, he promptly mentioned the fact—­he was mentioning it now to Mary Pennycuick.  “Yes,” he was saying, A propos of his motherless little girl—­whom he often brought to Redford for change of air, leaving her to the care of the sisters until convenient to him to reclaim her—­“yes, it will mean much to my child in after life to have had the refining influences of this house at the most impressionable age.”  Truth was, that Ruby was growing a little old for her Kindergarten, and he wanted Redford to offer her (gratis, of course) a share in Francie’s governess.  “I could not endure to see her grow up like the daughters of so many of my brother clergy, ignorant of the very rudiments of decent life”—­meaning not decent life in the ordinary acceptation of the term, but the life that included evening dress and finger-glasses.  “She has caught the colonial accent already at that horrid school.  ‘When is the new keeow coming?’ says she.  And, by the way, that reminds me—­your good father promised me the cow a fortnight ago.  The one we have gives us hardly enough milk for the table; we have had no butter from her for months.”