On the outskirts of Ketterford, a town of some note in the heart of England, stood, a few years ago, a white house, its green lawn, surrounded by shrubs and flowers, sloping down to the high road. It probably stands there still, looking as if not a day had passed over its head since, for houses can be renovated and made, so to say, new again, unlike men and women. A cheerful, bright, handsome house, of moderate size, the residence of Mr. Thornimett. At the distance of a short stone's-throw, towards the open country, were sundry workshops and sheds--a large yard intervening between them and the house. They belonged to Mr. Thornimett; and the timber and other characteristic materials lying ab…
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