nd a white apron protected
her neat black frock. I saw at once that she was a nervous little
body, yet there was dignity as well as deference in the face which
looked smilingly into mine. But the manner of her address took my
heart by storm. I had never been accosted in this way before, and I
nearly took the old lady in my arms and kissed her. I have done since!

"Yes, love!" she said. It was not an inquiry exactly, though there may
have been the faintest note of interrogation in her voice. It was as
though I had told her of my desire to rent the cottage, and she was
expressing a gratified assent.

"I see this little house is to let," I began; "may I look at it, and
will you tell me all about it?"

"To be sure, love," was the reply. "Now, just come inside my cottage
and rest yourself, and I'll pour you out a cup of tea if you're in no
hurry, for there's sure to be someone passing who will tell Reuben
Goodenough to come hither."

"How sweet of you!" I replied. "A cup of tea will be like the nectar
of the gods. I will drink it thankfully."

The inside of that room was a revelation to me. It was, oh, so very,
very small--the smallest living-room I am sure that I ever set eyes
upon--but so marvellously clean, and so comfortably homelike that I
uttered an exclamation of surprise and delight as I crossed the
threshold.

The ceiling was of oak, with deep, broad, uneven beams of the same
material, all dark and glossy with age. The stone floor was covered
for the most part with druggeting, whilst a thick rug composed of small
cuttings of black cloth with a design in scarlet was laid before the
ample hearth. An old oak sideboard, or dresser, nearly filled the wall
facing the window, and on its open shelves was an array of china which
would make some people I know break the tenth commandment. A
magnificent grandfather's clock, also in oak, with wonderful carving,
ticked importantly in one corner, and a capacious cupboard filled
another.

The wall decorations consisted of a bright but battered copper
warming-pan, which hung perpendicularly from the ceiling, looking like
the immense pendulum of some giant clock; and three "pictures" which
aroused my interest. Two of them were framed examples of their owner's
skill in needlework, as evidenced by the inscription, carefully worked
in coloured wool--"Mary Jackson, her work, aged 13." The letters of
the alphabet, and the numerals from 1 to 20, with certain enigmat