The yellow chariot began by conveying Emily and
me to our destination.
Clifton has grown considerably since those days, and terraces have
swallowed up the site of what the post-office knew as Prospect
Cottage, but we were apt to term the doll's house, for, as Emily
said, our visit there had something the same effect as a picnic or
tea drinking at little Anne's famous baby house. In like manner, it
was tiny, square, with one sash-window on each side of the door, but
it was nearly covered with creepers, odds and ends which Clarence
brought from home, and induced to flourish and take root better than
their parent stocks. In his nursery days his precision had given
him the name of 'the old bachelor,' and he had all a sailor's
tidiness. Even his black cat and brown spaniel each had its
peculiar basket and mat, and had been taught never to transgress
their bounds or interfere with one another; and the effect of his
parlour, embellished as it was in our honour, was delightful. The
outlook was across the beautiful ravine, into the wooded slopes on
the further side, and, on the other side, down the widening cleft to
that giddy marvel, the suspension bridge, with vessels passing under
it, and the expanse beyond.
Most entirely we enjoyed ourselves, making merry over Clarence's
housekeeping, employing ourselves after our wonted semi-student,
semi-artist fashion in the morning; and, when our host came home
from business, starting on country expeditions, taking a carriage
whenever the distance exceeded Emily's powers of walking beside my
chair; sketching, botanising, or investigating church architecture,
our newest hobby.
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