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anywhere.
    The coach finally reached Lockwood Village and we alighted. It was larger and greener and more congested than those villages directly on the coast. Most of the people earn their living working on small farms, but some of the men traveled thirty miles each day to work in the coal mines. The closing of the Mellory quarry had been a great blow to the local industry, but these people were strong, resilient, most of them living all their lives in this one spot, and they had the ability to make the best of what they had. If there was not wealth, there was fresh air, plenty of exercise and an abundance of milk and eggs and farm products. These gave the villagers a ruddy, healthy glow that I had never seen in London.
    The driver set our luggage on the platform in front of the station, then he went off to find someone who would drive us to Dower House. I stood under the shade of the awning and looked at the village. There was a square with a weathered marble monument surrounded by newly green grass. Several ancient wagons were drawn up around the square and men were loading produce onto them. A group of shabbily dressed children stood watching, and a small black and white dog nipped at the heels of one of the men. There were several stores, a post office, a blacksmith’s shop with a glowing forge and many leather harnesses hanging on pegs. There was a fairly respectable looking tavern and near the outskirts of the village I could see the silver spire of a church and a large redstone building that may have been a school.
    I could smell the delicious aroma of baking bread, mixed with the odors of rotten vegetables and cattle. An old woman in a black dress sat in front of a shop, making lace with nimble fingertips. She did not look down at her handiwork, but I could see that the piece in her lap was delicate and lovely. Lace made by the women of Lockwood Village was quite famous and London ladies of fashion paid a good price for it.
    Although there were many people in town this afternoon, no one spoke to us. Indeed, they did not even look up, although I was sure that all of them observed us carefully and would discuss every last detail of our dress and appearance once we were gone. These people were taciturn, not at all friendly to strangers in their midst. Mr. Patterson had told me I would be quickly accepted after they found out I was my aunt’s niece, but of course the villagers could not know that yet.
    A boy named Billy Johnson came to drive us to Dower House. He had a large open wagon with one broad seat, and he began to pile the luggage in the back. Billy was twenty-three years old, strong, stocky and good natured. He wore a tight sleeveless leather jerkin that displayed his broad shoulders and muscular arms to good advantage, and his skin had been bronzed by the sun. He had an unruly mop of light brown hair and his eyes were the color of old pennies. He grinned at Nan and I knew that she had made her first conquest. Billy made his living doing any odd jobs that came along and by hiring himself out to the farmers when an extra hand was needed. He told us that he was saving for a cottage of his own where he could take his bride.
    â€œYou’re married?” Nan asked, her mouth turning down in disappointment.
    â€œNot yet, Ma’am.”
    â€œYou have a girl?”
    â€œNot a steady one. There’s Betty Bransten—”
    â€œWho is she?”
    â€œA girl not half so pretty as you, Ma’am.”
    Nan gave him an encouraging smile and he helped us up to the seat. The dappled-gray horse trotted briskly down the street, kicking up a cloud of dust. Soon the village was behind us and we were driving on a tree-lined road that led through a thick woods. Billy talked pleasantly about himself and his ambitions and directed discrete questions towards Nan. She would not commit herself, but we were not a mile away from the village before it was firmly established that Billy would deliver all our