So the first few days after the reading of that will were passed by
Valentine in very good spirits, and with much self-gratulation on things
in general. John invited him to stay at his house till his father came
home, and Valentine accepting, they reached their station, and John was
at once received into the bosom of his family, that is to say, he was
pushed and pulled with difficulty into a very large carriage so
excessively full of young Mortimers that it was perfectly impossible to
add Valentine also.

"What did you bring them all for?" said John, falling foul of the
servants in a momentary fit of impatience, while they sat smiling all
over him.

"Well, sir, they were all inside the carriage and out of it ready,
before even we put the horses to. We didn't know which to pull out,"
answered the coachman, grinning.

John Mortimer's house was only reached by a country lane; and to all
appearances (though it was situated but two miles from the small town of
Wigfield), it was buried in the depths of the country. It was a
thoroughly unreasonable house, appearing outside to be more than half of
it roof, the stables being so arranged as to seem almost imposing in
comparison with it.

These stables ran down at right angles with the house, their windows and
doors below, being on the further side. But a story had been added which
was made of long wooden shingles, and one of these shingles having been
removed to admit light and air, you might very often see seven round
faces in a row looking out there, for the opening overlooked every
window in the front of the house without exception. The long loft, which