Marjorie chatted away like a magpie, for she had many questions to
ask Uncle Steve, and as she was looking out to renew acquaintance
with old landmarks along the road, the drive to the house seemed
very short, and soon they were turning in at the gate.

Haslemere was not a large, old-fashioned farm, but a fair-sized
and well-kept country place. Grandma Sherwood, who had been a
widow for many years, lived there with her son Stephen. It was
like a farm, because there were chickens and ducks, and cows and
horses, and also a large garden where fresh vegetables of all
sorts were raised. But there were no grain fields or large pasture
lands, or pigs or turkeys, such as belong to larger farms. The
drive from the gate up to the house was a long avenue, shaded on
both sides by beautiful old trees, and the wide expanse of lawn
was kept as carefully mowed as if at a town house. There were
flower beds in abundance, and among the trees and shrubbery were
rustic seats and arbors, hammocks and swings, and a delightful
tent where the children loved to play. Back of the house the land
sloped down to the river, which was quite large enough for
delightful boating and fishing.

The house was of that old-fashioned type which has two front doors
and two halls, with large parlors between them, and wings on
either side. A broad veranda ran across the front, and, turning
both corners, ran along either side.

As they drove up to the house, Grandma Sherwood was on the piazza
waiting for them. She was not a very old lady, that is, she was
not of the white-haired, white-capped, and silver-spectacled