e--providing that the frost was very strong--it would become
covered in ice, thus forming a charming contrast to early spring and
late autumn, when the rain was wont to transform it into a swirling
torrent, which often, so historians tell us, rose so high that it
overflowed its banks and caused much alarm to the inhabitants of Esher
proper. We do not use the expression "Esher proper" from any prudish
reason, but merely because Little Esher, a mile down the road, might in
the reader's mind become a factor to promote muddle if we did not take
care to indicate clearly its close proximity.

Esher, owing to its remarkable superabundance of trees, was in
summertime famous for its delightful variety of birds: magpies,
jackdaws, thrushes and wagtails, in addition to the usual sparrows and
tom-tits, were seen frequently; occasionally a lark or a starling would
charm the villagers with its song.

The soil of Esher, contrary to the usual supposition, was not as fertile
as one could have wished. Often, unless planted at exactly the right
time, fruit and vegetables would refuse to grow at all. The main road
through Esher proper, passing later through Little Esher, was much used
by those desiring to reach Portsmouth or Swanage or any of the Hampshire
resorts. Of course, travellers wishing to visit Cromer or Southend or
even Felixstowe would naturally leave London by another route entirely.

Dick Turpin was frequently seen tearing through Esher, with his face
muffled, and a large hat and a long cloak, riding a horse, at
night--there was no mistaking him.

According to Sophie's diary, written by her every day with unfailing
regularity for thirty-five years, she always just missed seeing Dick
Turpin. This was apparently a source of great grief to her; often she
would pause by the roadside and weep gently at the thought of him. Poor
Sophie! One was to ride along that very road who was destined to mean
much more to her than bold Dick Turpin. But we anticipate.

It was perhaps early autumn that saw Esher at its best--how brown
everything was, and yet, in some cases, how yellow! As a hunting centre
it was very little used, though occasionally a stag or wild boar would,
like Dick Turpin, pass through it.

One evening, when the trees were soughing in the wind and the sun had
sunk to rest, Sophie went out with her basket. It was too late to buy
anything, but she felt the need of air; not that the basket was
necessary in order to obtain t