found she had sufficient money to take her straight away to Usk had she so desired, but she dared not present herself before her people in her present draggled state. So she went into a little lodging in the Waterloo Road, where she was confident that no one would recognise her; and, after staying two nights there, she had so far remedied the state of her wardrobe as to feel able to go back to Wales without exciting too much inquiry. But still, Nell was far from being in her normal condition, and moved and spoke like a woman in a dream. CHAPTER VII. When visitors went for the first time to Usk, and their hostesses wished to imbue them with a sense of the beauties of the place, they generally said, ‘Oh, let us drive to Panty-cuckoo Farm! You must not leave Usk without seeing Panty-cuckoo Farm! The sweetest, most picturesque old place you ever set eyes on; quite a leaf out of the past ages. Sir Archibald Bowmant says it dates from the fourteenth century. And Mrs Llewellyn is such a quaint old woman. You don’t meet with such people in her class now-a-days. We always have our eggs and butter and pork from her, and she will give us a lovely cup of tea, with the best of cream. You must come!’ And the visitors usually agreed that their hostess’s description of the farm and its inhabitants had not been exaggerated, and came back delighted with what they had seen. They drove for some way out of the town of Usk, along an undulating road, almost overshadowed by the meeting branches of lofty elm and oak trees, and fringed by hedges, fragrant at this time of year with meadowsweet and climbing travellers’ joy and wild roses. A sudden curve in the road brought them to a wide, white gate, which led by a most precipitous pathway to the farmhouse. On either side this pathway were placed large, whitewashed blocks of stone, to enable the wheels of cart or carriage to keep from rolling into the little trench by which it was bordered. On one side the trench or ditch was a large orchard stretching away beyond where the eye could reach, and well stocked with apple, and pear, and cherry trees. Beneath their shade were numerous coops of hens, with their broods of little white chickens scattered round them like fallen blossoms of May; and flying like the wind at their mother’s call, as the black porkers, for which Farmer Llewellyn was famous, came grunting behind each other, eating the windfalls, and turning the refuse over with their ringed snouts. Opposite to the orchard was a plot of grass, which ran along the side of the house, and was decorated by garden beds, filled with carnations, lilies, mignonette, geraniums, and such common sweet-smelling flowers. This part of the house had been built subsequently to the original portion, and had a side entrance of its own beneath a little porch covered with honeysuckle and clematis. It consisted of only two rooms, and as the farmer’s family had never