KINGSFORD FARM
"And one, an English home—gray twilight pour'd
On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
Softer than sleep—all things in order stored
A haunt of ancient peace."—Tennyson.
WHEN tea was over, Chris took Jean upstairs.
"We are rather proud of this old house," she said, as she pointed out to her the ornamental carving round the balustrade of the staircase. "If one had money, how delicious it would be, to do it all up. This is your bedroom; it is very simple, but we hope you will like it."
Jean saw a large, rather bare-looking room. A very small square of carpet was laid in the centre of the floor; a little white dimity bed was in one corner, an old-fashioned washstand in the other; a hanging wardrobe, small chest of drawers, and modest dressing table completed the furniture, with the exception of one cane-bottomed chair and a bowl of pink roses on the deep window-ledge.
"It looks most cool and comfortable," was Jean's remark.
Then Chris took her farther down the old passage, and threw open a carved oak door.
"This is our show-room," she said. "Sometimes Barbara and I come up and sit here with our work. We imagine ourselves ladies of leisure, and expect a stately old butler to throw open the door and announce some guests dressed in Caldecott's fashion."
It was indeed a show-room. Ceiling and walls were all panelled and carved, the mantelpiece was in beautiful preservation, and the coat-of-arms and motto of the owner was carved above it; the floor was of polished oak.
"I spent two days last week rubbing it up," said Chris proudly; "for I was determined you should see it at its best. We settled when we came here, that nothing new should ever come into this room. That Chippendale cabinet belonged to our grandmother. The old oak chest we picked up cheap at a sale. The spinning-wheel an artist friend brought from Brittany, and that queer old cradle we got at a cottager's sale. These Chippendale chairs used to be in our drawing-room at home, and so did that oval table."