LIFE IN THE HUT 



291 



cottage does not let in a drop of wet. My bed 

 stands on the brick floor, there without carpet, and 

 is against two outer walls and under a part of the 

 roof that has no room above. As I love to hear 

 the sound of rain falling on a roof, here, when it 

 comes at night, I can enjoy it to the full. I had 

 never noticed before that the first drops of rain 

 falling on dry tiles have a clear, musical, tinkling 

 sound, changing to a duller note as the whole surface 

 of the tile becomes wetted. Though the simple ways 

 of living in the Hut may sound as if bordering on 

 the ascetic, yet there was no feeling of hardship, 

 and the whole way of life was evidently wholesome, 

 for during the two years that I occupied the cottage 

 I was never a day ill and only had one sHght 

 cold. 



Before I had occasion to live there myself I 

 had lent it to an old cottager friend, a woman of 

 the true old country type now, alas, nearly extinct. 

 In her day she had been a fine hard worker, but 

 rheumatism and heart-trouble put a painful restriction 

 on her ability to do the work that her brave old 

 heart made her unwilling to give up. I had hoped 

 when I wanted the cottage for my own use to be 

 able to keep her there as my servant. Her beautiful 

 cleanliness and ready cheerfulness, her bright, kindly, 

 apple-cheeked face, her delicious old caps and plain 

 dress of old-world pattern, were so exactly in keeping 

 with the simple little cottage that I was unwilling 



