Granfer by Eleanora H. Stooke

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.

The mistress of Lowercoombe was a comely, middle-aged woman, with a pleasant, ruddy face, and bright blue eyes that were in the habit of looking kindly upon every one and everything. Her husband often said that if she could find no good to say of people they must be either very disagreeable or very wicked, for his wife had a way of finding out folks' good qualities, and always tried to think the best of those who crossed her path in life.