hard by the dwelling-house stood and offered small diamond panes and one
dormer-window to the south. Upon its whitewashed face three fruit-trees
grew--a black plum, a cherry, a winter pear; and before the farmhouse
stretched a yard sloping to the river ford, where a line of massive
stepping-stones for foot-passengers crossed the water. On either side of
this space, walled up from the edge of the stream, little gardens of
raspberry and gooseberry bushes spread; and here, too, appeared a few
apple-trees, a bed of herbs, a patch of onions, purple cabbages, and a
giant hollyhock with sulphur-coloured blossoms that thrust his proud
head upwards, a gentleman at large, and the practical countrymen of the
kitchen-garden. The mill and outbuildings, the homestead and wood-stacks
embraced a whole gamut of fine colour, ranging from the tawny and
crimson of fretted brick and tile to varied greys of drying timber; from
the cushions and pillows of moss and embroidery of houseleeks and
valerian, that had flourished for fifty years on a ruined shippen, to
the silver gleam of old thatches and the shining gold of new. Nor was
the white face of the dwelling-house amiss. Only one cold, crude eye
stared out from this time-tinctured scene; only one raw pentroof of
corrugated iron blotted it, made poets sigh, artists swear, and Miller
Lyddon contemplate more of the same upon his land.

A clucking and grunting concourse of fowls and pigs shared the farmyard;
blue pigeons claimed the roof; and now, in the westering light, with
slow foot, sweet breath, and swelling udder, many kine, red as the ripe
horse-chestnut, followed each other across the ford, assembled
themselves together and lowed musically to the milkers. Phoebe Lyddon
and John Grimbal still stood at the farm-gate, and they watched, as a
boy and an aged man came forward with buckets and stools. Then, to the
muffled thud of the water-wheel and the drone and murmur of the river,
was added a purr of milk, foaming into tin pails, and sharp, thin