Our story is of the time when George III was king, and our scene of
action lies only at an old farm-house six miles or so from Finchley
--a quaint, ramshackle, commodious, old-fashioned, thatched farm-house
that we see only in pictures now, and which has long since been
improved off the face of the earth.

It was a farm estate that was flourishing bravely in those dear
disreputable days when the people paid fivepence a pound for bread,
and only dared curse Protection in their hearts; when few throve
and many starved, and younger sons of gentry, without interest at
court or Parliament, either cut the country which served them so
badly, or took to business on the king's highway and served the
country badly in return.

The Maythorpe Farm belonged to the Pemberthys, and had descended
from father to son from days lying too far back to reckon up just
now; and a rare, exclusive, conservative, bad-tempered, long-headed
race the Pemberthys had always borne the reputation of being,
feathering their own nests well, and dying in them fat and prosperous.

There were a good many Pembcrthys scattered about the home and
midland counties, but it was generally understood in the family
that the head of the clan, as it were, lived at Maythorpe Farm,
near Finchley, and here the Pemberthys would forgather on any
great occasion, such as a marriage, a funeral, or a christening,
the funeral taking precedence for numbers. There had been a grand
funeral at Maythorpe Farm only a few days before our story opens,
for Reuben Pemberthy had been consigned to his fathers at the early
age of forty-nine. Reuben Pemberthy had left one son behind him,
also named Reuben, a stalwart, heavy-browed, good-looking young