Everybody dies, don't they?

Everybody come back, isn't that so?

The house with the brick kiln.

The hamlet of Trevor Major lies very lonely and sequester in a hollow below the north side of the south downs

that stretch westward from Lewis and run parallel with the coast.

It is a hamlet of some three or four dozen inconsiderable houses and cottages,

much girt about with trees.

But the big Norman church and the manor house,

which stands a little outside the village, are evidence of a more conspicuous past. This latter,

except for a tenancy of rather less than three weeks now four years ago, has stood unoccupied

since the summer of 1896, and though it could be taken at a rent

almost comically small, it is highly improbable that either of its last tenants, even if times were

very bad, would think of passing a night in it again. For myself, I was one of those tenants.

I would far prefer living in a workhouse

to inhabiting those low-pitched oak-panelled rooms,

and would sooner look from my garret windows

onto the squalor and grime of Whitechapel

than from the diamond-shaped and leaded panes

of the manor of Trevor Major, onto the boscage of its cool thickets, and the glimmering

of its clear chalk stream, where the quick trout glance among the waving water-weeds, and

over the chalk and gravel of its sliding rapids.

It was the news of these trout that led Jack Singleton and myself to take the house for

...