“Come in, come in, and bring the children out of the sun,” she said, in a kind, cheerful voice. “Father is smoking his pipe in the kitchen, and will be fine and glad to see you all. Eh, but I am pleased to have you at Wheeler’s Farm, Miss Fenton. Hannah says she has a deal to be grateful to you for, and so have we all for being good to our girl.” I disclaimed this, and sang Hannah’s praises all the time we were crossing the courtyard to the porch. Molly shook her head, and said, “Nay, she is none too clever,” but looked gratified all the same. She was a plain, homely-looking woman, as Hannah said, with high cheek bones and reddish hair, but she looked kindly at the children and me, and I think we all liked her directly. “Look whom I am bringing, father,” she exclaimed, proudly, and Michael Sowerby put down his pipe and stared at us. He was a blue-eyed, ruddy old man, with beautiful snow-white hair, much handsomer than his daughter, and I was not surprised to see Hannah, in her love and reverence, take the white head between her hands and kiss it. “You will excuse our bad manners, I hope,” he said, pushing Hannah gently away, and getting up from his elbow chair. “So these are Squire Cheriton’s grandchildren. He is fine and proud of them, is the squire. Deary me, I remember as if it were yesterday the squire (he was a young man then) bringing in their mother, Miss Violet, to see me when she wasn’t bigger than little miss there, and Molly (mother I mean) said she was as beautiful as an angel.” “Mother is beautifuller now,” struck in Joyce, who had been listening to this. The old farmer chuckled and rubbed his hands. “Beautifuller, is she? Well, she was always like a picture to look at, was Miss Violet, a deal handsomer and sweeter than Madam, as we call her. Eh, what do you say, my woman?” for Molly was nudging him at this point. “Well, sit ye down, all of you, and Molly will brew us some tea.” “There is Luke crossing the farmyard,” observed Molly, in a peculiar tone, and Hannah took the hint and vanished. I sat quietly by the window with Reggie on my lap, talking to Michael Sowerby and glancing between the pots of fuchsias and geraniums at a brood of young turkeys that had found their way into the courtyard. Joyce was making friends with a tabby cat and her kittens, while Molly, still in her white sun-bonnet and tucked up sleeves, set out the tea-table and opened the oven door, from which proceeded a delicious smell of hot bread. She buttered a pile of smoking cakes presently, talking to us by snatches, and then went off to the dairy, returning with a great yellow jug of milk thick with cream, and some new laid eggs for the children.