“To Let for the Summer Months—Furnished. A Rectory in Mayberry, Sussex. Ten rooms, servants' quarters, vegetable gardens, small fruit, tennis court, etc., etc. Water and gas laid on. Golf near by. Terms low. Rector—Mayberry, Sussex.”
“I answered it, Hosy,” said Hephzy.
“You did!”
“Yes. It sounded so nice I couldn't help it. It would be lovely to live in a rectory, wouldn't it.”
“Lovely—and expensive,” I answered. “I'm afraid a rectory with tennis courts and servants' quarters and all the rest of it will prove too grand for a pair of Bayporters like you and me. However, your answering the ad does no harm; it doesn't commit us to anything.”
But when the answer to the answer came it was even more appealing than the advertisement itself. And the terms, although a trifle higher than we had planned to pay, were not entirely beyond our means. The rector—his name was Cole—urged us to visit Mayberry and see the place for ourselves. We were to take the train for Haddington on Hill where the trap would meet us. Mayberry was two miles from Haddington on Hill, it appeared.
We decided to go, but before writing of our intention, Hephzy consulted the most particular member of our party.
“It's no use doing anything until we ask her,” she said. “She may be as down on Mayberry as she was on Leatherhead.”
But she was not. She had no objections to Mayberry. So, after writing and making the necessary arrangements, we took the train one bright, sunny morning, and after a ride of an hour or more, alighted at Haddington on Hill.
Haddington on Hill was not on a hill at all, unless a knoll in the middle of a wide flat meadow be called that. There were no houses near the railway station, either rectories or any other sort. We were the only passengers to leave the train there.