It is before me now as I write with its long low whitewashed two-storied front, its dormer-windows, its roof faintly pink with a dark red bell-tower perched on the top.

Behind it is a long green field stretching to where hills, faintly blue in the morning light, rose, with very gradual slopes against the sky.

To the right I could see there was a garden hidden now by trees, on the left a fine old barn, its thatched roof deep brown, the props supporting it black with age.

In front of the pillared porch there was a little square of white cobble-stones and in the middle of these an old grey sundial.

The whole place was bathed in the absolute peace of the spring morning.
As we drove up a little old lady with two tiny children clinging to her skirts came to the porch.