flung away more money on hops than any other family in Kent.

The Everards were not rich. The shabby, delightful old rooms, the
tumble-down appearance of the ancient house, the lack of luxuries proved
it, but they were exceedingly content.

Constance was a slim, pale, fair-haired girl with a singularly sweet
expression and the temper, as her brother said often enough, of an
angel. John Everard was big and broad, brown-haired, ruddy complexioned.
He regarded every goose as a swan, and had unlimited belief in his land,
his sister, and the future. There was one other occupant of Buddesby, a
slight slender, dark-haired girl, with a thin, olive face, a pair of
blazing black eyes, and a vividly red-lipped mouth.

Eight years ago Matthew Everard had brought her home after a brief
visit to London. He had handed her over to eighteen-year-old Constance.

"Look after the little one, Connie," he had said. "There's not a soul in
the world who wants her, poor little lass. Her father's been dead years;
her mother died--last week." He paused. "I knew them both." That was all
the information he had ever given, so Ellice Brand had come to Buddesby,
one more mouth to feed, one more pair of feet to find shoes for.

She had many faults; she was passionate and wilful, defiant and
impatient of even Connie's gentle authority. But there was one who could
quell her most violent outburst with a word--one who had but to look at
her to bring her to her sane senses, one whom she would, dog-like, have
followed to the end of the world, from whom she would have accepted
blows and kicks and curses without a murmur, only that Johnny Everard
was not in the habit of bestowing blows and curses on young ladies.