g, and from their dress
and different sizes you may guess what happened to them. There are ten
sons and seven daughters; of the ten sons, six are bearded men, who grew
up, perhaps, and were men like their father: three are younger, just
ordinary sons, and one is a baby--I suppose died as a baby. Of the seven
daughters, two are babies, and the five that wear caps you may imagine
to be girls who grew up and were married and lived happily.

In Barrow Green House, an admirable building, perhaps more Georgian than
Jacobean, once lived Grote, the historian. He lies in Westminster Abbey;
his widow, as we saw, is buried in Shere churchyard. Barrow Green Farm,
close by, is all that an old farmhouse should be, complete with barns,
an oasthouse, and a fascinating front to the road. Oasthouses begin
here, near the Kent border. Surrey grows few hops; only at Farnham and
near Oxted, I think. In the west Hampshire encourages her, and here she
takes heart from Kent.

Limpsfield is the other side of the railway. The centre is unlike old
Oxted, for it is the church; but you cannot get a picture of Limpsfield
as separate and self-contained as of old Oxted. Oxted sets itself on its
hillside more charmingly than any village of the Surrey weald; you get
the picture from halfway up the road to the station, and you should look
at it when the sun is setting. Then the white ricks in the foreground
loom larger, and the huddled roofs and gables age into another century;
the blue smoke of wood fires drifts in the wind across the hill. But you
cannot hold Limpsfield at such a pleasant distance; you must come into
the village street close to the old cottages, and close too, to a large
house with a noble frontage on the roadway; great houses are seldom set
so near to cottages and the road. But Limpsfield, with all its
attractive antiquities of timber and gables, somehow strikes a modern
note. Detilens is the name--a name one vaguely tries to scan for a Latin
verse--of a little, hidden house of great age, in the village street.
But it is the common, not Detilens or neighbouring roofs, which marks
Limpsfield, and on the common are golf links and the huge red-brick
buildings of a school.

A century ago Limpsfield held an author and a critic. He was the author
of a tiny book, _Lympsfield and its Environs_, which was republished in
1838 with an introduction by a friend, who signs himself "H.G." and
dates his preface from Westerham. At Westerham, too, the