John Rupert, the beggared gentleman came to him, and wished to rent it
for a dwelling.

Mr. Rupert was old, and had been miserably poor for many years, but he
had a breeding and a manner superior to anyone at Bamber's Boom. He was
too old for a labourer, he had no art or craftsmanship; his little money
was gone in foolish speculations, and he was dependent on his
granddaughter's slight earnings from music teaching and needlework. But
he rented an acre of ground from Finley, and grew vegetables; he gathered
driftwood from the river for his winter fire, and made up the accounts of
the storekeeper occasionally. Yet it was merely keeping off starvation.
He was not popular. He had no tongue for the meaningless village talk.
People held him in a kind of awe, and yet they felt a mean satisfaction
when they saw him shouldering driftwood, and piling it on the shore to be
dragged away--the last resort of the poor, for which they blush.

When Mr. Rupert asked for the House, Finley knew the chances were he
would not get the rental; yet, because he was sorry for the old man, he
gave it to him at a low rate. He closed up the bar-room, however, and it
was never opened afterwards.

So it was that Mr. Rupert and Judith, his granddaughter, came to live
there. Judith was a blithe, lissome creature, who had never known comfort
or riches: they were taken from her grandfather before she was born, and
her father and mother both died when she was a little child. But she had
been taught by her grandmother, when she lived, and by her grandfather,
and she had felt the graces of refined life. Withal, she had a singular
sympathy for the rude, strong life of the river. She was glad when they
came to live at the Bridge House, and shamed too: glad because they could
live apart from the other villagers; shamed because it exposed her to the