His manner with poor people was very good—direct, asking
straightforward questions and not making his opinions palatable, and
yet behaving to them with perfect courtesy, as to equals.

We were staying in a house together in the country once, and heard
that a certain farmer was in trouble of some kind—we were not
exactly told what.

Arthur had struck up a friendship with this man on a previous visit,
and so he determined to go over and see him. He asked me to ride with
him, and I agreed. I will describe the episode precisely as I can
remember it:

We rode along, talking of various things, over the fresh Sussex
downs, and at last turned into a lane, overhung on both sides with
twisted tree-roots of fantastic shape, writhing and sprawling out of
the crumbling bank of yellow sand. Presently we came to a gap in the
bank, and found we were close to the farm. It lay down to the right,
in a little hollow, and was approached by a short drive inclosed by
stone walls overgrown by stonecrop and pennywort, and fringed with
daffodils and snap-dragons: to the left, the wall was overtopped by
the elders of a copse; to the right, it formed one side of a fruit
garden.

The drive ended in a flagged yard, upon which our horse's hoofs made
a sudden clatter, scaring a dozen ducks into pools and other coigns
of vantage, and rousing the house-dog, who, with ringing chain and
surly grumbles, came out blinking, to indulge in several painful
barks, waiting, as dogs will, with eyes shut and nose strained in