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her rosy crinkled face all puckered with mirth, and wondered what she meant.
    â€œYou’ll find out in tuthree days. My Betty is coming,” said she nodding and laughing as if she had made a great joke. Betty was three years old, she added, and she laughed again at our discomfiture.
    From room to room we went, and some doors were padlocked and some opened on to stores of wizened apples and great round cheeses ripening on the floors. One door which my aunt threw open led to the best bedroom, where a great four-poster bed stood with richly carved posts and ancient hangings and heavy tasselled coverlet. By its side stood a small oak chest, unpolished, and a clumsy chair with a faded velvet cushion.
    â€œThis is where they had their bedroom. It’s the only one left as it was in their day,” she said.
    â€œWho? Who had this bedroom?” we asked, sniffing the air, and stepping softly into the room. I caught my breath, as I listened for her reply and once again I heard that echoing sigh “for ever and ever”.
    â€œThe people who lived here once, those who owned the house a long time ago. Great folk they were, name of Babington. Maybe you’ve heard of them. The house and farm were theirs, but it has changed since then, and the farm divided.”
    â€œWhen did they live here?” asked Alison, casually, and she fingered the silky stuffs of the bed curtains.
    â€œOh, many a year ago. Hundreds maybe. This farm and all the buildings and barns were theirs, and the church hard by the stackyard yonder was their family chapel. They were Papists and folk say—”
    We were interrupted by a loud banging on the stairs and the bronze bell in the hall tinkled angrily as somebody shook it to and fro.
    â€œCicely Anne! Cicely Anne! Where be ye? Are ye staying up there all forenoon? Cicely Anne?”
    Uncle Barnabas was roaring like a bull and Aunt Tissie shut the door and hurried downstairs.
    â€œCorves to feed and all to do, and you enjoying yourself upstairs,” cried Uncle Barnabas reproachfully. “Those childer had best come and help, not hinder.”
    We went into the calf-place with Aunt and helped her to suckle the little red and white calves, and we held the cans of milk warm from their mothers to their slobbering mouths. We stroked their curly heads and pressed their tiny horns, and I slipped my fingers in their mouths to feel their young teeth.
    â€œDon’t be afeard! Put your fingers in. They won’t hurt ye,” said Aunt Tissie, as we played with the pretty beasts.
    All morning we worked, feeding the hens, running errands to the barns, stirring the pig food, and turning the handle of the turnip-chopper. Ian was out in the fields with Jess, helping to cart and spread manure, which was the healthiest job of all so Uncle Barnabas said.
    In the afternoon Aunt took us to visit a neighbour at a farm near, and it wasn’t till evening came that I thought of the best bedchamber. We sat round the fire and the newly risen wind cried in the wide chimney and moaned round the corners of the old house. Cows moved clumsily in the cow-places down the yard, thumping their horns against the oak stalls, and we could hear them when the door opened. There was the sturdy tramp of Jess across the cobbles and the clatter of horses led to the stables.
    â€œYou must come and see London, and stay with us,” Alison invited my uncle.
    â€œNay. We can never get away with the corves to suckle and cows to be milked, and London’s a powerful way off,” said Uncle Barnabas, in his slow drawl. “A powerful way off,” I murmured.
    I listened to the sounds outside while Alison and Ian talked of London—the hooting of an owl in the church tower, and the shriek of some small creature in the wood. Sometimes I thought I heard muffled steps in the room itself, movements and clatters as if people walked there, but perhaps it was only the wind catching the heavy curtains over