I Watched A Party Of Pretty Merry Girls Marching, Single File, Down A Narrow Path Past A Pig-Sty, Then Climb Up A Ladder To The Window Of A Loft At The Back Of A Stone Cottage And Disappear Within.

It was their bedroom.

The relations between the villagers and their visitors were more intimate and kind than is usual. They lived more together, and were more free and easy in company. The men were mostly farm labourers, and after their day's work they would sit out-of-doors on the ground to smoke their pipes; and where the narrow crooked little street was narrowest - at my end of the village - when two men would sit opposite each other, each at his own door, with legs stretched out before them, their boots would very nearly touch in the middle of the road. When walking one had to step over their legs; or, if socially inclined, one could stand by and join in the conversation. When daylight faded the village was very dark - no lamp for the visitors - and very silent, only the low murmur of the sea on the shingle was audible, and the gurgling sound of a swift streamlet flowing from the hill above and hurrying through the village to mingle with the Branscombe lower down in the meadows. Such a profound darkness and quiet one expects in an inland agricultural village; here, where there were visitors from many distant towns, it was novel and infinitely refreshing.

No sooner was it dark than all were in bed and asleep; not one square path of yellow light was visible.

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