The road swept up obliquely to a crest and then sank to the level of the stream. Abner had a vision of the whole valley expanding into a kind of amphitheatre through the middle of which the little river pursued a more leisurely course, winding gently through the fields as though it rejoiced to linger under the open sky. On either side the mountains rose to their full height, no longer concealed by foothills: from lip to lip the cup was roofed with dazzling blue. In the open space beneath, an avenue of chestnuts led upwards from the river to a great red house fronted with three pointed gables and crowned by clusters of fantastic chimney-stacks. ‘You don’t mean that one?’ said Abner. ‘Ay, that’s Wolfpits,’ George replied. ‘Looks all right, don’t it?’ As they descended the house was lost from sight and George began to explain that Wolfpits had once been a great house, the most westerly possession of the family whom Condover, his father-in-law, had served, but that the pastures which surrounded it, for all their greenness were poor and the mansion itself too remote and gloomy for gentlefolks to inhabit in this age of comfort. ‘They say it’s ha’nted, too,’ he declared, with a laugh, ‘though I don’t pay no heed to such stories. I reckon it stood here empty for close on a hundred years till Mary’s father got Mr McKellar, the agent, to let it off in pieces to them that wanted houses. There’s more than five farms up this valley lying empty for the want of a bit of work putting into them, but the old lord was so took up with his new model village down by Lesswardine, he hadn’t the money to put into the old ones. Not that I grumble at him. . . . ’Tis a good solid house to live in. There’s three families in it now, and room for four more in my opinion. And I reckon I’ve a kind of right to it,’ he went on; ‘the Malpases was big people in these parts at one time. You’ll find their names on the vault in Lesswardine church. _John Malpas_, _Gentleman_, that’s how it’s written. There’s a Reverent Cyril Malpas rector of Aston to this day. Mary’s father went into the family history at the time we was married. The Condovers is an old family too.’ These claims to a faded aristocracy did not interest Abner, but he could not help being impressed by the size of the house as they approached it through the shade of the chestnut avenue. It was built of small red bricks, strange to the country but now beautifully weathered by time. The eastern end was covered with a gigantic growth of ivy, but from the western side, which they were approaching, the parasite had been stripped on Mr Condover’s advice and the red wall glowed as though it were exuding the imprisoned sunshine of three centuries. In this generous light one did not notice an air of desolation which the uncurtained upper windows gave to it.