"And it ought to go against the grain too,--living in the country and paying for milk! I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you a cow. It shall be a little present from me to you." He said nothing of the more important present which this would entail upon him in the matter of the grass for the cow; but she understood the nature of the arrangement, and was anxious to prevent it. "Oh, Mr. Belton, I think we'd better not attempt that," she said. "But we will attempt it. I've pledged myself to do nothing to oppose your father; but I've made no such promise as to you. We'll have a cow before I'm many days older. What a pretty place this is! I do like these rocks so much, and it is such a comfort to be off the flat." "It is pretty." "Very pretty. You've no conception what an ugly place Plaistow is. The land isn't actual fen now, but it was once. And it's quite flat. And there is a great dike, twenty feet wide, oozing through it,--just oozing, you know; and lots of little dikes, at right angles with the big one. And the fields are all square. And there are no hedges,--and hardly a tree to be seen in the place." "What a picture you have drawn! I should commit suicide if I lived there." "Not if you had so much to do as I have." "And what is the house like?" "The house is good enough,--an old-fashioned manor-house, with high brick chimneys, and brick gables, tiled all over, and large square windows set in stone. The house is good enough, only it stands in the middle of a farm-yard. I said there were no trees, but there is an avenue." "Come, that's something." "It was an old family seat, and they used to have avenues in those days; but it doesn't lead up to the present hall door. It comes sideways up to the farm-yard; so that the whole thing must have been different once, and there must have been a great court-yard. In Elizabeth's time Plaistow Manor was rather a swell place, and belonged to some Roman Catholics who came to grief, and then the Howards got it. There's a whole history about it, only I don't much care about those things." "And is it yours now?" "It's between me and my uncle, and I pay him rent for his part. He's a clergyman you know, and he has a living in Lincolnshire,--not far off." "And do you live alone in that big house?" "There's my sister. You've heard of Mary;--haven't you?" Then Clara remembered that there was a Miss Belton,--a poor sickly creature, with a twisted spine and a hump back, as to whose welfare she ought to have made inquiries. "Oh, yes; of course," said Clara. "I hope she's better than she used to be,--when we heard of her."