IT was spring. The bright March sun in a cloudless blue sky was shining into the kitchen of Lowercoombe Farm, upon the spotless china on the dresser, the glistening tin ware on the mantelpiece, and the old copper warming pan hanging from its accustomed nail against the wall. The farm-house kitchen was a pleasant place: the stone floor was kept scrupulously clean, and the large deal table was as white as scrubbing could make it, whilst the oak settles by the fire-place and the few chairs placed at equal distances around the room shone with the constant application of 'elbow-grease, ' as the housewives call rubbing and polishing. On the hearth burnt a large wood fire, over which in an iron crock simmered a savoury stew which Mrs. Maple, the farmer's wife, who was engaged in getting up her husband's shirts at the table, put down her iron to stir occasionally.
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