On the Monday morning when he stepped through the white front gate, with his bag on his shoulder, and paused for a good look at the building, it seemed to him a very comfortable farmstead, and vastly superior to the tumble-down farms around Nannizabuloe.

The flagged path, which led up to the front door between great bunches of purple honesty, was swept as clean as a dairy.
A dark-haired maid opened the door and led him to the great kitchen at the back.

Hams wrapped in paper hung from the rafters, and strings of onions.

The pans over the fire-place were bright as mirrors, and through the open window he heard the voices of children at play as well as the clacking of poultry in the town-place.
"I'll go and tell the mistress," said the maid; but she paused at the door.

"I suppose you don't remember me, now ?" "No," said Taffy truthfully.
"My name's Lizzie Pezzack.