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At last one afternoon they had climbed together the steep red face of the sandy slope that rises abruptly from the Holmwood towards Leith Hill, by the Robin Gate entrance. Near the top, they had seated themselves on a carpet of sheep-sorrel, looking out across the imperturbable expanse of the Weald, and the broad pastures of Sussex. A solemn blue haze brooded soft over the land.
'I have lived very little in Sussex, and I used to hate the place; I am only just beginning to like it. But tell me the legend. 'Very well; let's try and find a place where we can sit down. The grass is full of that horrid prickly gorse. 'Here's a nice soft place; there is no gorse here. Now tell me the legend.
The two copies of pictures of the Sussex, also enclosed, were photographed from the English newspaper The Daily Graphic, of the 27th inst. A comparison of the sketches and the photograph shows that the vessel attacked is not identical with the Sussex; particularly striking is the difference in the position of the funnel and the shape of the stern.
Off the port bow were only beetling sandstone and the countless gulls, flashing white as they tilted the snowy linings of their wings into the sun. He talked for a time, in low tones of the girl in Sussex as men will talk when they are homesick, and then he rather shamefacedly produced from somewhere and opened at random a much battered blank-book, written in a woman's hand.
Now, the mass of chalk which has been carried away began behind you, at the Hogsback, and the line of chalk-hills which runs to Boxhill, and stretched hundreds of feet above your head as you stand on Hind Head or Leith Hill, right over the old Weald of Sussex to the chalk of the South Downs. And out of the scourings of that vast mass of chalk was our gravel-pit made.
Since they had been called to the direction of affairs every thing had been changed, changed for the better, and changed chiefly by their wise and resolute policy, and by the firmness with which their party had stood by them. There was peace abroad and at home. The sentinels had ceased to watch by the beacons of Dorsetshire and Sussex.
The roof was clad with Sussex stone, lichen-covered, and a feast of colour from grey and vivid yellow to the most tender green. Mrs. Bonner herself was a comfortable body, built on ample and generous lines, a born house manager, a born cook, and of a cleanliness that she herself described as "scrutinous." So Hugh, casting about for a retreat, had happened on Mrs.
But thou art a loser thinkest thyself such at least and thou shalt have indulgence; we will look into the matter ourself more at leisure. My Lord of Leicester, I trust you remember we mean to taste the good cheer of your Castle of Kenilworth on this week ensuing. We will pray you to bid our good and valued friend, the Earl of Sussex, to hold company with us there."
And it was while mentally retracing that walk down Sussex Gardens that Mrs. Major lit plump upon the solution of her difficulty. She had noticed, let out for a run from No. 506, an orange cat that was so precisely the image of the Rose of Sharon that she had stopped to stroke it for dear memory's sake.
Richard," said the old man solemnly, "for uncharitableness, ill-nature and stupid malice the gossip of a Sussex village leaves the most deplorable efforts of Voltaire and Swift entirely behind." "Father, you are going it," said Dick with a chuckle. "Do you mean to give me a step-mother?" "I do not, Richard. Such a monstrous idea never entered my thoughts. But, my boy, I have called upon her."
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