re's a place for
one; but the downs along the cliff, all gorse and ferns, are wild. The
combe ends in a sandy cove with black rock on one side, pinkish cliffs
away to the headland on the other, and a coastguard station. Just now,
with the harvest coming on, everything looks its richest, the apples
ripening, the trees almost too green. It's very hot, still weather; the
country and the sea seem to sleep in the sun. In front of the farm are
half-a-dozen pines that look as if they had stepped out of another land,
but all round the back is orchard as lush, and gnarled, and orthodox as
any one could wish. The house, a long, white building with three levels
of roof, and splashes of brown all over it, looks as if it might be
growing down into the earth. It was freshly thatched two years ago--and
that's all the newness there is about it; they say the front door, oak,
with iron knobs, is three hundred years old at least. You can touch the
ceilings with your hand. The windows certainly might be larger--a
heavenly old place, though, with a flavour of apples, smoke, sweetbriar,
bacon, honeysuckle, and age, all over it.

The owner is a man called John Ford, about seventy, and seventeen stone
in weight--very big, on long legs, with a grey, stubbly beard, grey,
watery eyes, short neck and purplish complexion; he is asthmatic, and has
a very courteous, autocratic manner. His clothes are made of Harris
tweed--except on Sundays, when he puts on black--a seal ring, and a thick
gold cable chain. There's nothing mean or small about John Ford; I
suspect him of a warm heart, but he doesn't let you know much about him.
He's a north-country man by birth, and has been out in New Zealand all
his life. This little Devonshire farm is all he has now. He had a large
"station" in the North Island, and was much looked up to, kept open
house, did everything, as one would guess, in a narrow-minded,
large-handed way. He came to grief suddenly; I don't quite know how. I
believe his only son lost money on the turf, and then, unable to face his
father, shot himself; if you had seen John Ford, you could imagine that.
His wife died, too, that year. He paid up to the last penny, and came
home, to live on this farm. He told me the other night that he had only
one relation in the world, his granddaughter, who lives here with him.
Pasiance Voisey--old spelling for Patience, but they pronounce, it
Pash-yence--is sitting out here with me at this moment