"Who should come to see me?
I'm only poor Monty.

Poor old Monty's got no friends.

Go away and let me dig." Trent walked a few paces apart, and passed out of the garden to a low, shelving bank and looked downward where a sea of glass rippled on to the broad, firm sands.

What a picture of desolation! The grey, hot mist, the whitewashed cabin, the long, ugly potato patch, the weird, pathetic figure of that old man from whose brain the light of life had surely passed for ever.

And yet Trent was puzzled.