“‘Well, miss,’ he said, ’you’re welcome to look over it; a pretty enough place, inside and out.  There’s no trouble about keys, because I’ve put in a housekeeper, a widow-woman, and she’ll show you round.  With your leave I’ll step up the coombe so far with you, and put you in your way.’  As I thanked him he paused and rubbed his chin.  ’There’s one thing I must tell you, though.  Whoever takes the house must take Mrs. Carkeek along with it.’

“‘Mrs. Carkeek?’ I echoed dolefully.  ‘Is that the housekeeper?’

“‘Yes:  she was wife to my late hind.  I’m sorry, miss,’ he added, my face telling him no doubt what sort of woman I expected Mrs. Carkeek to be; ’but I had to make it a rule after—­after some things that happened.  And I dare say you won’t find her so bad.  Mary Carkeek’s a sensible comfortable woman, and knows the place.  She was in service there to Squire Kendall when he sold up and went:  her first place it was.’

“‘I may as well see the house, anyhow,’ said I dejectedly.  So we started to walk up the coombe.  The path, which ran beside a little chattering stream, was narrow for the most part, and Farmer Hosking, with an apology, strode on ahead to beat aside the brambles.  But whenever its width allowed us to walk side by side I caught him from time to time stealing a shy inquisitive glance under his rough eyebrows.  Courteously though he bore himself, it was clear that he could not sum me up to his satisfaction or bring me square with his notion of a tenant for his ‘secluded country residence.’

“I don’t know what foolish fancy prompted it, but about halfway up the coombe I stopped short and asked: 

“‘There are no ghosts, I suppose?’

“It struck me, a moment after I had uttered it, as a supremely silly question; but he took it quite seriously.  ’No; I never heard tell of any ghosts.’  He laid a queer sort of stress on the word.  ’There’s always been trouble with servants, and maids’ tongues will be runnin’.  But Mary Carkeek lives up there alone, and she seems comfortable enough.’

“We walked on.  By-and-by he pointed with his stick.  ’It don’t look like a place for ghosts, now, do it?’

“Certainly it did not.  Above an untrimmed orchard rose a terrace of turf scattered with thorn-bushes, and above this a terrace of stone, upon which stood the prettiest cottage I had ever seen.  It was long and low and thatched; a deep verandah ran from end to end.  Clematis, Banksia roses and honeysuckle climbed the posts of this verandah, and big blooms of the Marechal Niel were clustered along its roof, beneath the lattices of the bedroom windows.  The house was small enough to be called a cottage, and rare enough in features and in situation to confer distinction on any tenant.  It suggested what in those days we should have called ‘elegant’ living.  And I could have clapped my hands for joy.