But though they were clasped over the child, no shadow fell on its little face. The baby laughed.
| · | · | · | · | · | · | · |
Some years ago—the author cannot at the moment say how many, nor does it matter—he paid a visit to Morwell, and saw the sad havoc that had been wrought to the venerable hunting-lodge of the Abbots of Tavistock. The old hall had disappeared, a floor had been put across it, and it had been converted into an upper and lower story of rooms. One wing had been transformed into a range of model cottages for labourers. The house of the Jordans was now a farm.
The author asked if he might see the remains of antiquity within the house.
An old woman who had answered his knock and ring, replied, ‘There are none—all have been swept away.’
‘But,’ said he, ‘in my childhood I remember that the place was full of interest; and by the way, what has become of the good people who lived here? I have been in another part of the country, and indeed a great deal abroad.’
‘Do you mean Mr. Jasper?’
‘No: Jasper, no—the name began with J.’
‘The old Squire Jordan your honour means, no doubt. He be dead ages ago. Mr. Jasper married Miss Jordan—Miss Barbara we called her. When Miss Eve died, they went away to Buckfastleigh, where they had a house and a factory. There was a queer matter about the old squire’s death—did you never hear of that, sir?’