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HOME
After W. S. Maugham
1
The farm, an oldfashioned stone house, was built in 1673,
and for three hundred years the people had been born and died
in it and had farmed the surrounding land.
George Meadows was a man of fifty and his wife, Mrs.
George, was a year or two younger.
They were both fine people
in the prime of life. Their three daughters were
lovely and their
two sons were
handsome and strong. They had no notions
about being gentlemen and ladies;
they knew their place, were
happy and
deserved their happiness, as they were
merry,
indus
trious
and kindly.
The master of the house was not George, but his mother, who
was
twice the man her son was, as they said in the village. She
was a woman of seventy, tall, upright, with gray hair and a
wrin
kled
face. Her eyes were bright and shrewd and she had a sense
of humour. Her word was law in the house and on the farm. In
short, she was a character.
One day Mrs. George met me in the street and told me that
they had received a
letter from their Uncle George, whom them
all thought dead. The letter
informed them of his coming. “Just
fancy,” she said, “he hasn’t been here for fifty years. And old
Mrs. Meadows sits there and smiles to herself! All she says is
that he was very goodlooking, but
not so steady as his brother
Tom!” Mrs. George invited me to look in and see the old man.
I accepted the invitation with joy, as I knew the story of Uncle
George Meadows and it
amused me because it was like an old
ballad. It was touching to come across such a story in real life.
More
than fifty years ago, when Mrs. Meadows was Emily
Green, a young charming girl, George and his younger brother
Tom both courted her. When Emily married Tom,
George had
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