No one better
deserves it than you, Mrs. Anderson." And I add diplomatically: "Doesn't
Miss Annie also go with you?"
"Annie's over Fuller's Farm way," says the good woman smiling; and I
smile too, for no particular reason. "She mostly walks up there of a
Sunday afternoon."
I know Fuller's Farm. I have passed it in my rambles. You skirt the
copse, cross the sunny upland field, drop over the stile to the right,
and find yourself in Fuller's Lane. The farm is a little further on, a
comfortable homestead, smaller than Down End, but built of the same
grey, lichened stone, and with the same steep roof and dormer windows.
I gave the Andersons ten minutes start, then rose, unlatched the gate,
and followed Annie. I reached the upland field. It was dotted with
sheep: ewes and lambs; long shadows sloped across it; a girl stood at
the further gate. This was Annie, but alas! someone was with her; a
loutish figure that I at first took to be that of son Robert. But as I
came nearer, I saw it was not Robert but his equally loutish friend, the
young fellow I had seen working with him by the threshing machine.
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