After breakfast Braithwaite went out on to his farm, and Miss Ann retired to attend to some household business. Nellie, an all-round blue apron tied over her light gown and a white sunbonnet upon her head, stood at the table gathering scraps of broken food into a bowl. She was going, so she told me, to feed some broods of young chickens in the Orchard Close; and, on my asking permission to go with her, seemed pleased to have my company. As we passed out of the porch into the morning sunshine, I could not but exclaim at the peaceful charm of the place. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is peaceful—almost too peaceful, perhaps. But my father does not feel that. He has plenty to occupy him. The land had been neglected and the farm buildings suffered to fall into decay before we came; and you know his energy in making improvements and setting things to rights—working himself and making, not only his labourers, but nature itself work for and with him.’ She glanced at me with a smile of tender amusement. ‘He is happy here,’ she added. ‘And you?’ I asked, perhaps unwisely. ‘If he is happy, I am content,’ she answered. ‘He is the best father living, and—his will is mine, dear Mr. Brownlow. It ought to be so, for he is most indulgent to me. There is nothing I could ask for which he would not give me if he could.’ And she paused. ‘If he could?’ I repeated, for it struck me she alluded to a subject which must be in both our minds, and about which she might be glad to speak. ‘Yes,’ she said; ‘there are things—or at least there is one thing he cannot give me, because it is—or rather was—against his principles and judgment, against his conviction of what is wise and right. And now⸺’ Again she paused. ‘Now it is too late.’ She moved forward quickly and opened the door leading into the Orchard Close—some half acre of ancient turf, in which grew fine old fruit trees, apple, pear, plum, cherry, and shining-leafed walnut. The pears were already in blossom, their pyramids and wreaths of powdery white seen, overhead, against the radiant blue. High brick walls, mellow with age and encrusted in places with lichens of every tint from vivid orange to delicate grey, enclosed the place. Hen-coops were set out upon the warm short grass, over which a busy population of yellow chicks and ducklings scampered towards us—their mothers and foster-mothers, meanwhile, craning ruffled necks between the wooden bars of the coops, with distracted callings and cluckings.