But the most remarkable house in Dillsborough was one standing in a short thoroughfare called Hobbs Gate, leading down by the side of the Bush Inn from the market-place to Church Square, as it is called.  As you pass down towards the church this house is on the right hand, and it occupies with its garden the whole space between the market-place and Church Square.  But though the house enjoys the privilege of a large garden,—­so large that the land being in the middle of a town would be of great value were it not that Dillsborough is in its decadence,—­still it stands flush up to the street upon which the front door opens.  It has an imposing flight of stone steps guarded by iron rails leading up to it, and on each side of the door there is a row of three windows, and on the two upper stories rows of seven windows.  Over the door there is a covering, on which there are grotesquely-formed, carved wooden faces; and over the centre of each window, let into the brickwork, is a carved stone.  There are also numerous underground windows, sunk below the earth and protected by iron railings.  Altogether the house is one which cannot fail to attract attention; and in the brickwork is clearly marked the date, 1701,—­not the very best period for English architecture as regards beauty, but one in which walls and roofs, ceilings and buttresses, were built more substantially than they are to-day.  This was the only house in Dillsborough which had a name of its own, and it was called Hoppet Hall, the Dillsborough chronicles telling that it had been originally built for and inhabited by the Hoppet family.  The only Hoppet now left in Dillsborough is old Joe Hoppet, the ostler at the Bush; and the house, as was well known, had belonged to some member of the Morton family for the last hundred years at least.  The garden and ground it stands upon comprise three acres, all of which are surrounded by a high brick wall, which is supposed to be coeval with the house.  The best Ribston pippins,—­some people say the only real Ribston pippins,—­in all Rufford are to be found here, and its Burgundy pears and walnuts are almost equally celebrated.  There are rumours also that its roses beat everything in the way of roses for ten miles round.  But in these days very few strangers are admitted to see the Hoppet Hall roses.  The pears and apples do make their way out, and are distributed either by Mrs. Masters, the attorney’s wife, or Mr. Runciman, the innkeeper.  The present occupier of the house is a certain Mr. Reginald Morton, with whom we shall also be much concerned in these pages, but whose introduction to the reader shall be postponed for awhile.