in his favour, seeing what Henry Churchward had been in life.

However, Bob earned his money and came along, and Mary saw him and took
him in, and let him shake the snow off himself and eat and drink. Then
began the famous blizzard, and I've often thought old Bob must have known
it was coming. At any rate there was no choice but to let him stop, for it
would have been death to turn him out again. So he stopped, and when the
bad weather was over, he wouldn't go. There's no doubt my sister always
liked the man in a way; but women like a man in such a lot of different
ways that none could have told exactly how, or why, she set store on him.
For that matter she couldn't herself. Indeed I axed her straight out and
she tried to explain and failed. It wasn't his outer man, for he had a
face like a rat, with a great, ragged, grey moustache, thicker on one side
than t'other, and eyebrows like anybody else's whiskers. And one eyelid
was down, though he could see all right with the eye under it. Round in
the back he was and growing bald on the top; but what hair he had was
long, and he never would cut it, because he said it kept his neck warm.

He had his history pat, of course, though how much truth there was to it
we shall never know in this world. He was an old soldier, and had been
shot in the right foot in India along with Lord Roberts in the Chitral
campaign. Then he'd left the service and messed up his pension--so he
said. I don't know how. Anyway he didn't get none. He showed a medal,
however, which had been won by him, or somebody else; but it hadn't got no
name on it. He was a great talker and his manners were far ahead of
anything Mary had met with. He'd think nothing of putting a chair for her,
or anything like that; and while he was storm-bound, he earned his keep
and more, for he was very handy over a lot of little things, and clever
with hosses and so on, and not only would he keep 'em amused of a night
with his songs and adventures; but he'd do the accounts, or anything with