“When one has resources to draw on,” Miss Vanderpoel commented, “in the case of a woman who has lived eighty-three years and brought up ten children until they were old and strong enough to leave her to take care of herself, it is difficult for the weak of mind to apply the laws of Political Economics.  I will go and see old Mrs. Welden.”

If the Vanderpoels would provide for all the obstinate old men and women in the parish, the Political Economics of Stornham would proffer no marked objections.  “A good many Americans,” Mrs. Brent reflected, “seemed to have those odd, lavish ways,” as witness Lady Anstruthers herself, on her first introduction to village life.  Miss Vanderpoel was evidently a much stronger character, and extremely clever, and somehow the stream of the American fortune was at last being directed towards Stornham—­which, of course, should have happened long ago.  A good deal was “being done,” and the whole situation looked more promising.  So was the matter discussed and summed up, the same evening after dinner, at the vicarage.

Betty found old Mrs. Welden’s cottage.  It was in a green lane, turning from the village street—­which was almost a green lane itself.  A tiny hedged-in front garden was before the cottage door.  A crazy-looking wicket gate was in the hedge, and a fuschia bush and a few old roses were in the few yards of garden.  There were actually two or three geraniums in the window, showing cheerful scarlet between the short, white dimity curtains.

“A house this size and of this poverty in an American village,” was Betty’s thought, “would be a bare and straggling hideousness, with old tomato cans in the front yard.  Here is one of the things we have to learn from them.”

When she knocked at the door an old woman opened it.  She was a well-preserved and markedly respectable old person, in a decent print frock and a cap.  At the sight of her visitor she beamed and made a suggestion of curtsey.

“How do you do, Mrs. Welden?” said Betty.  “I am Lady Anstruthers’ sister, Miss Vanderpoel.  I thought I would like to come and see you.”

“Thank you, miss, I am obliged for the kindness, miss.  Won’t you come in and have a chair?”

There were no signs of decrepitude about her, and she had a cheery old eye.  The tiny front room was neat, though there was scarcely space enough in it to contain the table covered with its blue-checked cotton cloth, the narrow sofa, and two or three chairs.  There were a few small coloured prints, and a framed photograph or so on the walls, and on the table was a Bible, and a brown earthenware teapot, and a plate.

“Tom Wood’s wife, that’s neighbour next door to me,” she said, “gave me a pinch o’ tea—­an’ I’ve just been ’avin it.  Tom Woods, miss, ’as just been took on by Muster Kedgers as one of the new under gardeners at the Court.”