th no sides to it. Nevertheless, it had its charms. Save
on the northern side, where it was backed by the huge elms in the home-
field, it lay bare to the winds, breezy, airy, full of light. In summer
the front door was always open, and even when it was shut in cold weather
no knocker was ever used. If a visitor came by daylight he was always
seen, and if after dark he was heard. The garden, which lay on the west
side of the house and at the back, was rather warm in hot weather, but
was delicious. Under the wall on the north side the apricot and Orleans
plum ripened well, and round to the right was the dairy, always cool,
sweet, and clean, with the big elder trees before the barred window.

The mistress of the house, Mrs. Bellamy, was not a very robust woman. She
was generally ailing, but never very seriously ill. She had had two
children, but they had both died. Mrs. Bellamy's mind, unoccupied with
parental cares, with politics, or with literature, let itself loose upon
her house, her dairy, and her fowls. She established a series of
precautions to prevent dirt, and the precautions themselves became
objects to be protected. There was a rough scraper intervening on behalf
of the black-leaded scraper; there was a large mat to preserve the mat
beyond it: and although a drugget coveted the stair carpet, Mrs. Bellamy
would have been sorely vexed if she had found a footmark upon it. If a
friend was expected she put some straw outside the garden gate, and she
asked him in gentle tones when he dismounted if he would kindly "just
take the worst off" there. The kitchen was scoured and scrubbed till it
was fleckless. It was theoretically the living-room, and a defence for
the parlour, but it also was defended in its turn like the scraper, and
the back kitchen, which had a fireplace, was used for cooking, the fire
in the state kitchen not being lighted in summer time. Partly Mrs.
Bellamy's excessive neatness was due to the need of an occupation. She
brooded much, and the moment she had nothing to do she became
low-spirited and unwell. Partly also it was due to a touch of poetry.
She polished her verses in beeswax and turpentine, and sought on her
floors and tables for that which the poet seeks in Eden or Atlantis. It
must not be imagined that because she was so particular she was stingy.
She was one of the most open-handed creatures that ever breathed. She
loved plenty. The jug was always full to overflowing with