The tale of a young woman photographer who leaves London because she is "nervy," and takes a cottage at ten pounds a year in Windyridge, Yorkshire. There is, fortunately, an old, disused conservatory which gives her a studio, and once her sign is up she is ready for customers. The natives of the village and the surrounding country come to be photographed, and from a lonely city dweller she becomes one of the community, a personality to be counted in, and to be reckoned with.
erest. Two of them were framed examples of their owner's skill in needlework, as evidenced by the inscription, carefully worked in coloured wool--"Mary Jackson, her work, aged 13." The letters of the alphabet, and the numerals from 1 to 20, with certain enigmatical figures which I took to represent flowers, completed the one effort, whilst familiar texts of Scripture, after the style of "Thou God Seest Me," made up the other.
The third frame was of mahogany like the others, and contained a collection of deep, black-edged funeral cards of ancient date.
But the fireplace! My father's description of a real, old-fashioned Yorkshire range was understood now for the first time, as I saw the high mantelpiece, the deep oven and the wide-mouthed grate and chimney, in which the yellow flames were dancing merrily, covering the whole room with the amber glow which made it so warm and enticing. Through an open door I caught sight of a white counterpane, and found that there was, after all, a wee bedroom buil
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