"I went to London when I was eighteen to make my fortune."

"Oh," said Jean, and into that "Oh" she put all manner of things she
could not say. She had been observing her visitor, and she was sure that
this shabby little man (Peter Reid cared not at all for appearances and
never bought a new suit of clothes unless compelled) had returned no
Whittington, Lord Mayor of London. Probably he was one of the "faithful
failures" of the world, one who had tried and missed, and had come back,
old and tired and shabby, to see his boyhood's home. The tenderest
corner of Jean's tender heart was given to shabby people, and she longed
to try to comfort and console, but dared not in case of appearing
impertinent. She reflected dismally that he had not even a wife to be
nice to him, and he was far too old to have a mother.

"Are you staying in Priorsford?" she asked gently.

"I'm at the Temperance Hotel for a few days. I--the fact is, I haven't
been well. I had to take a rest, so I came back here--after thirty
years."

"Have you really been away for thirty years? Great-aunt Alison came to
The Rigs first about thirty years ago. Do you, by any chance, know our
landlord in London? Mr. Peter Reid is his name."

"I know him."

"He's frightfully rich, they say. I don't suppose you know him well
enough to ask him not to sell The Rigs? It can't make much difference to
him, though it means so much to us. Is he old, our landlord?"