im Uncle John had moved in a world separate from
the rest of the household and entirely his own. It was not that he took
no interest in them, it was just that he appeared to forget them for
long intervals, talking very seldom, and when he did always about the
days that were past. He had never married, but there had been one great
love in his life. Aunt Janet had told Joan all about it, a girl who had
died many years ago; after her death Uncle John had lived for nothing
but his regiment. Then he had had to leave it because old age had called
for retirement, and he had sent for Aunt Janet to come and keep house
for him and together they had settled down in the old home at
Wrotham--both unmarried, both very quiet and content to live in the
past. Then Joan had descended on them, a riotous, long-legged,
long-haired girl of eight, the child of a very much younger, little
known brother.

With the coming of Joan, new life and new surprising interest had
awakened in Aunt Janet's heart, but Uncle John had remained impervious
to the influence. He was very fond of Joan in his way, but he scarcely
ever noticed and he certainly knew nothing about her. He had realized
her less and less as she grew up; when he spoke or thought of her now it
was always as still a child.

"You are a nice young lady," he greeted her good-humouredly, stooping to
kiss Joan at the station; "your Aunt Janet was sure this sudden return
meant a breakdown. She is all of a twitter, so to speak, and would have
been here to meet you herself only we have got a Miss Abercrombie
staying with us. Where's the luggage?"

"I have only brought my small things with me," Joan explained, "the rest
are coming on. I am sorry Aunt Janet is worried, and who is Miss
Abercrombie?"

"Friend of your aunt's," he answered; he took her bag from her. "I have
brought the trap, Janet thought you might be too delicate to walk." He
chuckled to himself at the thought and picking up the reins climbed
into the cart beside her. "Don't think Sally has been out twice since
you left, see how fat she has got."

The little brown pony certainly answered to the implication. Her sides
bulged against the shafts and bald patches were manifesting themselves,
caused by the friction.

"What have you been doing then?" asked Joan; "why haven't you been out?"

"Nothing to go for," he answered, "and I have been too busy in the
garden. Extended that bit down through the wood." The garden was his one
grea