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DIPWELL FARM.
In rain or in sunshine this old farmhouse had a constant resemblance to a wall-flower; and it had the same moist earthy smell, except in the kitchen, where John and Martha Thresher lived, apart from their furniture.

All the fresh eggs, and the butter stamped, with three bees, and the pots of honey, the fowls, and the hare lifted out of the hamper by his hind legs, and the country loaves smelling heavenly, which used to come to Mrs.Waddy's address in London, and appear on my father's table, were products of Dipwell farm, and presents from her sister, Martha Thresher.

On receiving this information I felt at home in a moment, and asked right off, 'How long am I to stay here ?--Am I going away tomorrow ?--What's going to be done with me ?' The women found these questions of a youthful wanderer touching.

Between kissings and promises of hens to feed, and eggs that were to come of it, I settled into contentment.