Old Widow Lamont and her spinster daughter, Robina, lived in a bit of a house on the edge of the pine wood that sheltered our presbytery from the east winds; they were consequently our nearest neighbors with the exception of Willy and Bell.  They possessed a cow and a few hens, and Robina, who was a sturdy woman of forty, did the work of their small croft with occasional help from one of the males of the community.  For in Ardmuirland, be it known, one neighbor helps another in return for the like service when required; thus Robina would lend a hand at hay-time, harvest, potato planting, and the rest, and would be entitled to a few days’ plowing and harrowing on her own land in compensation.

The Lamonts, though not exceedingly poor, could not be called well-to-do.  The absence of a resident man in a small croft must be of necessity a difficulty; but they were upright, hard-working women, and managed to maintain themselves in a simple, frugal way.  Oatmeal and potatoes were grown on the croft; bread could be obtained from the passing baker’s cart in exchange for eggs; butter, and sometimes milk, could be sold to neighbors; the widow’s knitted stockings fetched a fair price with the hosier in the county town; in these various ways they made ends meet.

Old-age pensions were then unheard of, and the Lamonts would have thought themselves insulted had any one suggested parish relief for the old woman; although her helpless condition would have justified it, for she never moved from her corner by the fire, to which she was carried from her bed in the morning to be borne back to bed at night.  An accident which had befallen her when in the prime of life had rendered her a cripple without power to move her lower limbs.

Like many of their class, the Lamonts were full of an honest pride, and although they may have possibly felt the pinch of poverty now and again, they would have scorned to acknowledge it.  By the exercise of diplomacy Penny has often managed to help them in little ways from time to time; she will visit the old woman to inquire after her health, and take with her in a neighborly way some little delicacy in the shape of soup or pudding.  At one time she tried to furnish her with some orders for stockings, but it turned out that the Lamonts considered it next door to heresy to take payment from the priest’s house, and Penny’s charitable attempts were frustrated.  She found it better to “borrow” a few eggs occasionally (even though she was not in great need of them), and to more than pay their value in little presents—­an acknowledgment of the kindness of the lenders.

“The very thing for the Lamonts!” exclaimed Val at breakfast one morning.  He had been reading his letters, just delivered, and I was glancing through that day’s paper.  I looked up in token of interest.

“I have an application from the Inspector of the Poor,” he continued, “for a quiet, reliable family, who would be willing to take charge, for payment, of a poor daft fellow.  He is about thirty, and has been in this state since he was eighteen, when he had a bad fever.  He is perfectly tractable, quite inoffensive, and thoroughly good-tempered.  The only reason for moving him from his present home is that it is in a village, and the children tease and annoy him.  I fancy the Lamonts would jump at the opportunity.”