We met with the ready, simple
Berkshire courtesy; we were referred to a gardener who was in
charge. To speak with him, we walked round to the other side of the
house, to an open space of grass, where the fowls picked merrily,
and the old farm-lumber, broken coops, disused ploughs, lay
comfortably about. "How I love tidiness!" wrote Morris once. Yet I
did not feel that he would have done other than love all this
natural and simple litter of the busy farmstead.
Here the venerable house appeared more stately still. Through an
open door in a wall we caught a sight of the old standards of an
orchard, and borders with the spikes of spring-flowers pushing
through the mould. The gardener was digging in the gravelly soil.
He received us with a grave and kindly air; but when we asked if we
could look into the house, he said, with a sturdy faithfulness,
that his orders were that no one should see it, and continued his
digging without heeding us further.
Somewhat abashed we retraced our steps; we got one glimpse of the
fine indented front, with its shapely wings and projections.
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