Kent sheep--the road from Pedlinge to Brodnyx went through them, curling
and looping and doubling to the demands of the dykes. Just beyond
Pedlinge it turned northward and crossed the South Eastern Railway under
the hills that used to be the coast of England, long ago when the sea
flowed up over the marsh to the walls of Lympne and Rye; then in less
than a mile it had crossed the line again, turning south; for some time
it ran seawards, parallel with the Kent Ditch, then suddenly went off at
right angles and ran straight to the throws where the Woolpack Inn
watches the roads to Lydd and Appledore.

On a dim afternoon towards the middle of October in the year 1897, a
funeral procession was turning off this road into the drive of Little
Ansdore. The drive was thick with shingle, and the mourning coaches
lurched and rolled in it, spoiling no doubt the decorum of their
occupants. Anyhow, the first two to get out at the farmhouse door had
lost a little of that dignity proper to funerals. A fine young woman of
about twenty-three, dressed handsomely but without much fashion in black
crape and silk, jumped out with a violence that sent her overplumed
black hat to a rakish angle. In one black kid-gloved hand she grasped a
handkerchief with a huge black border, in the other a Prayer Book, so
could not give any help to the little girl of ten who stumbled out after
her, with the result that the child fell flat on the doorstep and cut
her chin. She immediately began to cry.

"Now be quiet, Ellen," said the elder roughly but not unkindly, as she
helped her up, and stuffing the black-bordered handkerchief into her
pocket, took out the everyday one which she kept for use. "There, wipe
your eyes, and be a stout gal. Don't let all the company see you
crying."