“Why, mother,” laughed the farmer as he passed through the kitchen, swinging the great milk-churns, “you’ve got almost more than you can manage there.”
She beat up the sofa cushions for the youth.
The kitchen was very small and irregular. The farm had been originally a labourer’s cottage. And the furniture was old and battered. But Paul loved it — loved the sack-bag that formed the hearthrug, and the funny little corner under the stairs, and the small window deep in the corner, through which, bending a little, he could see the plum trees in the back garden and the lovely round hills beyond.