"It was, miss. It was a great large farm, with a stone 'ouse as big as an inn. An' it 'ad slates on the roof an' slates down the front. An' in the side was a gate, like you 'd see to a prison. An' it opened into the yard, where the carts were, an' the doors to the barn. An' the barn was all stone like th' 'ouse. An' th' 'ouse an' the barn were joined into one by the wall an' the gate. But to come in th' 'ouse by the front door, you went through a gate in the garden wall, an' smelled the sweet briar, an' lifted the knocker. An' downstairs the floors were slate, miss, an' they washed them with milk."
"How quaint!"
"Yes, miss. It was all a great marvel to me. I used to wake up in the mornings with joy—the air was so sweet in my lungs. An' I 'd lie an' listen to the beck an' the birds together." She paused to turn over in her memory, wistfully, these treasured recollections. "Uncle Wilson was a red-faced man, as big as a giant. 'E worked with the men all day in the fields, or 'e was away at market by three o'clock in the mornin' an' not back again till night. An' my aunt was tall, too, but spare, with a long face like you see on an old ewe—an' a good 'ousekeeper, but so savin' that when she sewed she 'd make me pick up her bastin' threads an' wind them on a spool to 'em dish-towels. An' there was my Cousin William an' the baby. An' that was all—except the servants that were 'ired by Uncle Wilson at the fairs on Michaelmas an' Candlemas, twice a year, men an' women, the women to work in the fields as well as the men.
