“Nearly a hundred years old, and he has lived on sixteen shillings a week all his life, and earned it by working every hour between sunrise and sunset,” Betty said to her sister, when she went home.  “A man has one life, and his has passed like that.  It is done now, and all the years and work have left nothing in his old hands but his pipe.  That’s all.  I should not like to put it out for him.  Who am I that I can buy him a new one, and keep it filled for him until the end?  How did it happen?  No,” suddenly, “I must not lose time in asking myself that.  I must get the new pipe.”

She did it—­a pipe of great magnificence—­such as drew to the Doby cottage as many callers as the village could provide, each coming with fevered interest, to look at it—­to be allowed to hold and examine it for a few moments, guessing at its probable enormous cost, and returning it reverently, to gaze at Doby with respect—­the increase of which can be imagined when it was known that he was not only possessor of the pipe, but of an assurance that he would be supplied with as much tobacco as he could use, to the end of his days.  From the time of the advent of the pipe, Grandfather Doby became a man of mark, and his life in the chimney corner a changed thing.  A man who owns splendours and unlimited, excellent shag may like friends to drop in and crack jokes—­and even smoke a pipe with him—­a common pipe, which, however, is not amiss when excellent shag comes free.

“He lives in a wild whirl of gaiety—­a social vortex,” said Betty to Lady Anstruthers, after one of her visits.  “He is actually rejuvenated.  I must order some new white smocks for him to receive his visitors in.  Someone brought him an old copy of the Illustrated London News last night.  We will send him illustrated papers every week.”

In the dull old brain, God knows what spark of life had been relighted.  Young Mrs. Doby related with chuckles that granddad had begged that his chair might be dragged to the window, that he might sit and watch the village street.  Sitting there, day after day, he smoked and looked at his pictures, and dozed and dreamed, his pipe and tobacco jar beside him on the window ledge.  At any sound of wheels or footsteps his face lighted, and if, by chance, he caught a glimpse of Betty, he tottered to his feet, and stood hurriedly touching his bald forehead with a reverent, palsied hand.

“’Tis ’urr,” he would say, enrapt.  “I seen ’urr—­I did.”  And young Mrs. Doby knew that this was his joy, and what he waited for as one waits for the coming of the sun.

“’Tis ’urr!  ’Tis ’urr!”

The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Brent, who since the affair of John Wilson’s fire had dropped into the background and felt it indiscreet to present tales of distress at the Court, began to recover her courage.  Her perfunctory visits assumed a new character.  The vicarage had, of course, called promptly upon Miss Vanderpoel, after her arrival.  Mrs. Brent admired Miss Vanderpoel hugely.