Roger Monk looked at him thoughtfully. “Not that I knows of, Sir,” he began, his gipsy-like eyes wandering from Wolf’s face to the landscape in front of him, a portion of which landscape included the figure of Mr. Otter, hiding behind the poplar-tree.

“That is to say, Sir, unless by any chance⁠ ⁠… but that ain’t likely, Sir.⁠ ⁠…”

“What do you mean, Monk?” enquired the other, eagerly.

“ ’Twere only that I myself live lonesome-like in me own place⁠ ⁠… and seeing you’re helping Squire with his writings⁠ ⁠… and Lenty Cottage be neat set up, I were just thinking⁠—”

Wolf swung his stick. “The very thing!” he cried excitedly. In a flash his imagination became abnormally active. He visualized this gardener’s house in all its details. He saw himself, as well as his mother, snugly ensconced there for years and years⁠ ⁠… perhaps for the rest of their lives!