ly a quarter of a mile away, and when it's windy, the sound
of it travels up the combe; for distraction, you must go four miles to
Brixham or five to Kingswear, and you won't find much then. The farm
lies in a sheltered spot, scooped, so to speak, high up the combe
side--behind is a rise of fields, and beyond, a sweep of down. You have
the feeling of being able to see quite far, which is misleading, as
you soon find out if you walk. It is true Devon country-hills, hollows,
hedge-banks, lanes dipping down into the earth or going up like the
sides of houses, coppices, cornfields, and little streams wherever
there'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 ever