and
Rexingham; and being thirsty, had followed some cows through a
rick-yard, in the hopes of obtaining a glass of milk.

There, behind the hayricks, I had come upon my first view of Down End
Farm; and the picture of its grey stone, lichened walls, red roof, cosy
kitchen and comely mistress, had remained painted on my brain. So, too,
I retained a scrap of my conversation with Mrs. Anderson, and her casual
mention of the London family then occupying her best rooms. "We don't
have many folk at Down End, it being so out of the way, sir; but the
gentleman here now says he do like it, just on account of the solitude
and quiet."

There was no particular reason at the time why these words should have
so impressed me. Solitude was the last thing I desired then, having gone
down to Shoreford for my holiday, merely because Catherine was spending
the summer there too. But now that everything is over between us, the
solitary farm comes as balm to my wounded spirit. Let me see; to-day is
Tuesday the 2nd. Good Friday is the day after to-morrow; I could get
away to-morrow evening. All right! I'll go out and telegraph to Mrs.
Anderson, and pay for her reply.

April 4. Down End Farm.--I reached this last night. At seven o'clock I
found myself driving up from Rexingham station, with the crimson flaming
brands of the sunset behind me, and the soft mysterious twilight closing
in on all sides. It was almost dark when we got to the top of Beacon
Point Hill, and quite dark for a time as we began to descend the other
side, for the road here is cut down between steep red gravel banks,
crowned with sombre fir trees. When these were passed and we reached the
remembered stack-yard gate, there was clear heaven again above my head,
its exquisite ever-darkening blue already gemmed with the more brilliant
stars. The Plough faintly outlined above, and beautiful spica hanging
low over Windle Flats. A cheerful glow-worm of red earth-light gleamed
from the farm-house windows as we drove round to the inner gate, while
at the sound of the wheels the kitchen door opened, and my hostess came
down the flagged pathway between the sleepy flowers to bid me welcome.

How delightful the first evening in country quarters always is. How
comfortable the wood fire that flamed and sputtered on the parlour
hearth, how inviting the meal of tea, new-laid eggs, homemade breads and
jams, honey and hot scones spread out upon a spotless cloth around a
centre piece of daff