CHAPTER III

DIPWELL FARM

In rain or in sunshine this old farmhouse had a constant resemblance to a
wall-flower; and it had the same moist earthy smell, except in the
kitchen, where John and Martha Thresher lived, apart from their
furniture. All the fresh eggs, and the butter stamped, with three bees,
and the pots of honey, the fowls, and the hare lifted out of the hamper
by his hind legs, and the country loaves smelling heavenly, which used to
come to Mrs. Waddy's address in London, and appear on my father's table,
were products of Dipwell farm, and presents from her sister, Martha
Thresher. On receiving this information I felt at home in a moment, and
asked right off, 'How long am I to stay here?--Am I going away tomorrow?-
-What's going to be done with me?' The women found these questions of a
youthful wanderer touching. Between kissings and promises of hens to
feed, and eggs that were to come of it, I settled into contentment. A
strong impression was made on me by Mrs. Waddy's saying, 'Here, Master
Harry, your own papa will come for you; and you may be sure he will, for
I have his word he will, and he's not one to break it, unless his
country's against him; and for his darling boy he'd march against
cannons. So here you'll sit and wait for him, won't you?' I sat down
immediately, looking up. Mrs. Waddy and Mrs. Thresher raised their
hands. I had given them some extraordinary proof of my love for my
father. The impression I received was, that sitting was the thing to
conjure him to me.