"I thought the parson always did that sort of thing," said Juliet.

Mrs. Rickett uttered a brief, expressive snort. "He ain't much
use--except for the church. He's old, you see, and he don't understand
'em. And he's scared at them chaps what works the lead mines over at High
Shale. It's all in this parish, you know. And they are a horrid rough
lot, a deal worse than the fisher-folk. But Dick he don't mind 'em. And
he can do anything with 'em too, plays his banjo and sings and makes 'em
laugh. The mines belong to the Farringmore family, you know--Lord
Wilchester owns 'em. But he never comes near, and a' course the men gets
discontented and difficult. And they're a nasty drinking lot too. Why,
the manager--that's Mr. Ashcott--he's at his wit's end sometimes. But
Dick--oh, Dick can always handle 'em, knows 'em inside and out, and their
wives too. Yes, he's very clever is Dick. But he's thrown away in this
place. It's a pity, you know. If it weren't for Robin, it's my belief
that he'd be a great man. He's a born leader. But he's never had a
chance, and it don't look like as if he ever will now, poor fellow!"

Mrs. Rickett ended mournfully and picked up Juliet's empty plate.

"How old is he?" asked Juliet.

"Oh, he's a lot past thirty now, getting too old to turn his hand to
anything new. Mr. Fielding he's always on to him about it, but it don't
make no difference. He'll never take up any other work while Robin lives.
And Robin is stronger nor what he used to be, all thanks to Dick's care.
He's just sacrificed everything to that boy, you know. It don't seem
hardly right, do it?"

"I don't know," Juliet said slowly. "Some sacrifices are worth while."