tricycle chair, I can get about the place pretty much as I choose.
And Marigold is my second self. So, in spite of the sorrow and
grief incident to humanity of which God has given me my share, I
feel that my lot is cast in pleasant places and I am thankful.

The High Street, towards its southern extremity, takes a sudden
bend, forming what the French stage directions call a pan coupe.
On the inner angle are the gates of Wellings Park, the residence
of Sir Anthony Fenimore, third baronet, and the most considerable
man in our little community. Through these gates the car took me
and down the long avenue of chestnut trees, the pride of a
district braggart of its chestnuts and its beeches, but now
leafless and dreary, spreading out an infinite tracery of branch
and twig against a grey February sky. Thence we emerged into the
open of rolling pasture and meadow on the highest ground of which
the white Georgian house was situated. As we neared the house I
shivered, not only with the cold, but with a premonition of
disaster. For why should Lady Fenimore have sent for me to see Sir
Anthony, when he, strong and hearty, could have sent for me
himself, or, for the matter of that, could have visited me at my
own home? The house looked stark and desolate. And when we drew up
at the front door and Pardoe, the elderly butler, appeared, his
face too looked stark and desolate.

Marigold lifted me out and carried me up the steps and put me into
a chair like my own which the Fenimores have the goodness to keep
in a hall cupboard for my use.

"What's the matter, Pardoe?" I asked.