Figeon's Farm (the true spelling of the name should be Fitz-John's, but nobody ever thought of calling it so) was a prosperous and pleasant place enough.

It had been in the hands of Devenishes ever since the Norman conquest--so at least the common belief went--and there was no tradition of the house or lands having been in other hands than those of the present family.
When Paul Stukely awoke from the deep sleep of exhaustion into which he had fallen even while the worthy smith had been talking to him overnight, his ears were assailed by the peaceful and comfortable sounds inseparable from farmhouse life and occupation.
He heard the cackling of hens, the grunting of pigs, and the rough voices of the hinds as they got the horses out of the sheds, and prepared to commence the labours of the day with harrow or plough.
These sounds were familiar enough to Paul; they seemed to carry him back to the days of his childhood, and he lay for several minutes in a state between sleeping and waking, dreamily wondering if the strange events of the past year were all a dream, and if he should wake by-and-by to find himself a child once more, in his little bed in the old home, and receive his mother's kiss as his morning's greeting.
But soon this sweet illusion faded, and the young man sat up in bed and looked quickly round him, trying to recollect where he was and what had brought him here.

During the last two years, in which he had been forced to lead the roving life of an adventurer--common enough in those days, and by no means entirely distasteful to one of his temperament and training--he had slept in many strange places, and had known quarters far ruder than the unceiled, raftered room of the gabled farm.
In time it all came back to him--the attack upon the helpless girl in the wood, his own successful defence, and the journey to the farmhouse in the gathering darkness.

Paul gave himself a shake to see how he felt, and decided that although stiff and bruised, and crippled in the left arm, he might yet make shift to rise and dress himself.

He saw his clothes all laid out in readiness for him, and it was plain that some good friend had sat up far into the night brushing and mending them; for they had been in somewhat sorry plight after his adventure of yesterday, and now they were fresh and clean and almost smart looking, as they had not been for many a long day before.
As Paul was slowly dressing, he was suddenly aware of the sound of a woman's voice speaking or reading--he fancied from its monotonous cadence that it must be the latter--in some room that could not be far away from his own chamber.