"Jessie," he continued, "the key of Holt Farm is on the nail; take it, go quickly and open the house." And without another word he and the man went out together.
Jessie rose, took the key, whistled, and went to the door, the sheep-dog at her heels.
"Where be you going, miss?" asked Mary, looking out from the half-open kitchen door.
"I am going to Holt Farm," she answered, "to open it."
"What for? It was aired last Monday," said Mary.
"Father told me to go," answered Jessie; and with that she left the house, went through the garden and the adjoining churchyard, crossed a low stone bridge which spanned the river a few yards lower down, and began climbing the hillside.
It was pretty steep, but she did not feel it; she had been born among the hills, and fells, and dales. The dog bounded before her, sniffing the balmy air, odorous with the scent of the heather and the multitudinous wild flowers which grew on the hillside. It was a good walk before she reached the wicket-gate, and, lifting the latch, went into the farm garden.
A gravel path led up to the house. There were no weeds, no overgrowth of any sort, as is often the case in an uninhabited homestead.
He had never given any reason for his doing so, but the vicar had himself kept the place in order, had had repairs done when necessary, and had seen that the garden was trim and neat, and that every week the windows were thrown open. The house was literally buried in trees, so that till you came close up to it you could not see more than the outline of a building. There had been no clearance made for the last fifteen years, and the boughs of the elm-trees touched the windows.
It was not a large place: a stone house with a deep porch in the centre, on either side of which were long low windows, with lozenge-shaped panes of glass. On the first and only story were two similar windows, that was all; but the house extended far back, looking out upon a somewhat large court-yard, in which there were stables and outhouses, as was common in farmhouses.