In Oxfordshire, about two miles from the Thames, and on the skirts of the beech forest that lies between Wallingford and Hendley, stands an irregular farmhouse; it looks like two houses forced to pass for one; for one part of it is all gables, and tile, and chimney-corners, and antiquity; the other is square, slated, and of the newest cut outside and in. The whole occupies one entire side of its own farmyard, being separated from the straw only by a small Rubicon of gravel and a green railing; though at its back, out of the general view, is a pretty garden. In this farmhouse and its neighborhood the events of my humble story passed, a very few years ago. . . .