Readers have no doubt noticed how seldom builders live in houses of their own construction. You will find a town or village expanding in all directions with their masterpieces of modernity in the way of houses and bungalows; but the builder himself you will usually find living nearer the heart of things, snugly and comfortably housed in some more substantial, if less convenient, building of less recent date. Uncle James Dowland’s house was probably Georgian. The eight windows with their clinging wreaths of wisteria were beautifully spaced and the flight of steps which led up to the hooded front door was guarded by the low white posts and chains which enclosed the little green. But, before Laura could get more than a general impression and think ‘what a nice house’, she was in the comfortable arms of her Aunt Edith, who was sure they were all tired out after that long drive in the hot sun and would be glad to rest, and Uncle would be here soon. He was a Churchwarden now and had to attend the morning service; and if Robert would take the horse and cart round to the yard gate—“You haven’t forgotten the way, Robert?”—Alma would call the boy to see to the pony. “He comes in for an hour or two on Sunday mornings to clean the boots and the knives, you know, Emmie, and I’ve kept him on today on purpose. Now, you come upstairs with me and I’ll find some lotion for Laura’s freckles; then you must all have a glass of wine to refresh you. It’s all of my own making, so you need not be afraid of it for the children. James would never allow intoxicating liquor in this house.”

The inside of the house seemed like a palace to Laura, after their own homely cottage. There were two parlours, one on each side of the front door, and in one of them a table was spread with decanters and wineglasses and dishes of cakes and fruit and biscuits. “What a lovely dinner,” Laura whispered to her mother when they happened to be alone in the room for a moment.