Plashers Mead is an unusual sort of title; but then it belongs to a novel quite out of the ordinary. There is something both striking and delightful in the way this love story is told, although the incidents are trivial enough, and the persons more like ordinary living folk than the principals of most modern fiction. But with a sure hand and delicate touch, a remarkable sense of color, and a gift of imagination all his own, the author weaves page after page of lyrical prose into a tapestry that leaves the critic without opportunity for disparagement.
since the days of Elizabeth. He counted the nine windows, five above and four below, populating with the shapes of many friends the rooms they lightened. He looked at the steep roof of gray-stone tiles rich with the warm golden green of mossy patterns. He looked at the four pear-trees against the walls of the house barren now for many years. He looked at himself in silhouette against the silver sky of the well-water; and then he went indoors.
The big stone-paved hall was very cool, and the sound of the stream at the back came babbling through lattices open to the light of a green world. Guy could not make up his mind whether the inside of the house smelled very dry or very damp, for there clung about it that odor peculiar to rustic age, which may be found equally in dry old barns and in damp potting-sheds. He wished he could furnish the hall worthily. At present it contained only a high-back chair, an alleged contemporary of Cromwell, which was doddering beside the hooded fireplace; a warming-pan; and