nswoman of Sir
Anthony, and so I have grown into the intimacy of many folks around.
And, as they have been more than good to me, surely I must give them of
my best in the way of sympathy and counsel. So it is in no spirit of
curiosity that I have pried into my friends' affairs. They have become
my own, very vitally my own; and this book is a record of things as I
know them to have happened.

My name is Meredyth, with a "Y," as my poor mother used proudly to say,
though what advantage a "Y" has over an "I," save that of a swaggering
tail, I have always been at a loss to determine; Major Duncan Meredyth,
late R.F.A., aged forty-seven; and I live in a comfortable little house
at the extreme north end of the High Street, standing some way back
from the road; so that in fine weather I can sit in my front garden and
watch everybody going into the town. And whenever any of my friends
pass by, it is their kindly habit to cast an eye towards my gate, and,
if I am visible, to pass the time of day with me for such time as they
can spare.

Years ago, when first I realised what would be my fate for the rest of
my life, I nearly broke my heart. But afterwards, whether owing to the
power of human adaptability or to the theory of compensation, I grew to
disregard my infirmity. By building a series of two or three rooms on
to the ground floor of the house, so that I could live in it without
the need of being carried up and down stairs, and by acquiring skill in
the manipulation of my tricycle chair, I can get about the place pretty
much as I choose. And Marigold is my second self. So, in spite of the
sorrow and grief incident to humanity of which God has given me my
share, I feel that my lot is cast in pleasant places and I am thankful.

The High Street, towards its southern extremity, takes a sudden bend,
forming what the French stage directions call a pan coupe. On the inner
angle are the gates of Wellings Park, the residence of Sir Anthony
Fenimore, third baronet, and the most considerable man in our little
community. Through these gates the car took me and down the long avenue
of chestnut trees, the pride of a district braggart of its chestnuts
and its beeches, but now leafless and dreary, spreading out an infinite
tracery of branch and twig against a grey February sky. Thence we
emerged into the open of rolling pasture and meadow on the highest
ground of which the white Georgian house was situated. As we neared the
house I shive