Many of the children with whom he was a favourite came up to see him, bringing little knots of flowers, or curious trophies of weed and shells from the seashore--and now that the weather was settled fine and warm, he became accustomed to sit in his chair outside the cottage door in the garden, with the old sweetbriar bush shedding perfume around him, and a clambering rose breaking into voluptuous creamy pink blossom above his head.

Here he would pursue his occupation of basket-making, and most of the villagers made it their habit to pass up and down at least once or twice a day in their turns, to see how he fared, or, as they themselves expressed it, "to keep old David going." His frail bent figure, his thin, intellectual face, with its composed expression of peace and resignation, his soft white hair, and his slow yet ever patiently working hands, made up a picture which, set in the delicate framework of leaf and blossom, was one to impress the imagination and haunt the memory.

Mr.and Mrs.Twitt were constant visitors, and many were the would-be jocose remarks of the old stonemason on David's temporary truancy.
"Wanted more work, did ye ?" And thrusting his hands deep in the pockets of his corduroys, Twitt looked at him with a whimsical complacency.
"Well, why didn't ye come down to the stoneyard an' learn 'ow to cut a hepitaph?
Nice chippy, easy work in its way, an' no 'arm in yer sittin' down to it.

Why didn't ye, eh ?" "I've never had enough education for such work as that, Mr.Twitt," answered David mildly, with something of a humorous sparkle in his eyes.
"I'm afraid I should spoil more than I could pay for.

You want an artist--not an untrained clumsy old fellow like me." "Oh, blow artists!" said Mr.Twitt irreverently.