The Plough faintly outlined above, and beautiful spica hanging
low over Windle Flats. A cheerful glow-worm of red earth-light gleamed
from the farm-house windows as we drove round to the inner gate, while
at the sound of the wheels the kitchen door opened, and my hostess came
down the flagged pathway between the sleepy flowers to bid me welcome.
How delightful the first evening in country quarters always is. How
comfortable the wood fire that flamed and sputtered on the parlour
hearth, how inviting the meal of tea, new-laid eggs, homemade breads and
jams, honey and hot scones spread out upon a spotless cloth around a
centre piece of daffodils and early garden flowers. For a rejected
suitor I felt singularly cheerful; for a blighted being I made a most
excellent meal; and for the desperate misogynist I had determined on
becoming I surely felt too much placid satisfaction at Mrs. Anderson's
homely talk.
But it was really pleasant to lie back in the capacious leathern chair,
while this good woman cleared away the tea-things, and lazily eyeing the
fire, listen to the history of herself and her family, of her husband,
her children, her landlord, of her courtship, her marriage, her
troubles, of the death of her mother in the room overhead the year
before last, and of the wedding of her eldest boy Robert which is to
take place this summer as soon as the corn is carried.
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