This part, containing
in all four rooms, two here and two below, was built in July, 1793, as a
rudely scratched tablet on the wall outside informs me.
I sit with Annie on the carved chest at the southern end of the passage.
The window behind us gives an extensive view of grey rain and grey sea.
But I prefer to look at the smiling, freckled face that speaks so
eloquently of sunny days. The wet, trailing fingers of the briar-rose
climbing over the porch tap at the casement, the loose branch of the
plane-tree creaks in the wind, the distant sea moans and murmurs; but I
prefer to listen to my little friend's artless and occasionally "h-less"
English, as she tells me how the Andersons have always been tenants of
Down End since her great-grandfather came to the county and added on the
living-house to the farm-house for his young wife.
"July, 1793." The date takes my fancy. I can see the Anderson of those
days, large-boned, sinewy, stooping, with a red, fiery beard, like his
present representative, stolid, laborious, contented, building his house
here facing the coasts of France, nearly as ignorant of, and quite as
indifferent to, the wild work going on over there in Paris town as
little Annie herself can be.
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