There was no particular beauty about it; indeed, it had a dreary
look, and evidences of economy were not wanting. Thomas Crosby, never at
any time to be reckoned a wealthy man, had expended much in the cause of
the Parliament, and had left his son Gilbert a comparatively poor man.
Within, the house was spacious and comfortable, with many a hiding-place
in it which had been turned to account before now, and, if the furniture
had grown shabby and showed its age unmistakably, Gilbert had become so
accustomed to it that he hardly noticed its deficiencies. Lenfield was
the home he loved, and this fact touched it, and everything in it and
about it, with magical colours. Lately he had had visions of a fair
woman descending the low, broad stairs, smiling at him as she came; in
fancy he had seen her flitting from room to room, filling them with
laughter and sunshine. So much power had a length of white ribbon which
had once belonged to such a woman.
Crosby returned to Lenfield by many by-roads, more careful, even, than
he had been when riding towards Bridgwater. Once he had turned aside to
avoid a band of militiamen, for he had no desire to be questioned.
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