was my life that you saved."

"What an old-fashioned princess it is!" said the Major. "Why, it must
have been born a hundred years ago, and have had a fairy for its
godmother. But here comes Deborah to tell us that breakfast is ready.
Toasted bacon is better than pretty speeches; so come along with you,
and make believe that you have known each other for a twelvemonth at
least."

Rose Cottage was a tiny place, and there were not wanting proofs that
the Major's income was commensurate with the scale of his establishment.
A wise economy had to be a guiding rule in Major Strickland's life,
otherwise Mr. George's college expenses would never have been met, and
that young gentleman would not have had a proper start in life. Deborah
was the only servant that the little household could afford; but then
the Major himself was gardener, butler, valet and page in one. Thus--he
cleaned the knives in a machine of his own invention; he brushed his own
clothes; he lacquered his own boots, and at a pinch could mend them. He
dug and planted his own garden, and grew enough potatoes and greenstuff
to serve his little family the year round. In a little paddock behind
his garden the Major kept a cow; in the garden itself he had
half-a-dozen hives; while not far away was a fowl-house that supplied
him with more eggs than he could dispose of, except by sale. The Major's
maxim was, that the humblest offices of labour could be dignified by a
gentleman, and by his own example he proved the rule. What few leisure
hours he allowed himself were chiefly spent with rod and line on the
banks of the Adair.

George Strickland was an orphan, and had been adopted and brought up by
his uncle since he was six years old. So far, the uncle had been able