ntlemen's motor garages, but large enough for one
occupant, or even for two if their tastes are simple.

The ground rises steeply behind it, and tall trees cover the hill from
base to summit, so that the little white house is quite overshadowed by
them. I call it a white house, but the walls are almost concealed by
green and yellow and crimson, where the canary creeper and climbing
roses stretch forth their slender arms to embrace the brown, thatched
roof.

The garden is evenly divided into two parts by the flagged footpath
which leads straight to the door, and it is always ablaze with colour
in the summer time; but the arrangement is more orderly than in some of
our Windyridge gardens, for Carrier Ted, albeit old-fashioned in his
tastes, is an epicure in horticulture. Only a few days ago Rose and I
had stopped to admire his bloom, and especially the wonderful moss
roses which were his especial pride, and to have a word with the old
man whose skill and industry had aroused my friend's enthusiasm.

When I first came to the village I took him to be of weak intellect,
principally, I believe, because he always wore a tall silk hat of
antiquated pattern. It was a very rough silk of uncertain colour, and
gave one the impression that it was constantly brushed the wrong way;
but whether working in the garden or walking along the road, Carrier
Ted might always be recognised by his peculiar headgear.

But there is no daftness about him really. He is just a quiet, even
taciturn old man, who is alone in the world and has saved sufficient
money to enable him to spend the evening of life in comfort, and who
finds in his home and garden both business, recreation and religion.
He is a little, bent man, round-faced and ruddy in spite of his eighty
odd years, with thick grey eyebrows, and a half-circle of beard
stretching from ear to ear beneath his chin. When you praise his
flowers he pauses for a moment, draws his sleeve across his brow in a
confused sort of way, as if to remove perspiration, and smiles. The
smile and the action always remind me of a bashful child who would like
to be friendly but dare not all at once. The smile lights up his face
and reveals the angel within him; but he answers only in monosyllables,
and seems relieved when you pass on your way. It was this man and his
cottage who were the subject of excited conversation.

"It's a burnin' shame, Miss 'Olden, that's what it is!" exclaimed Widow
Smithies, "