not profit by my superintendence.

'Then,' said I, 'I'll talk to Arthur till you've done.'

'I should like to have a ride, Mr. Markham, if mamma will let me,' said
the child.

'What on, my boy?'

'I think there's a horse in that field,' replied he, pointing to where
the strong black mare was pulling the roller.

'No, no, Arthur; it's too far,' objected his mother.

But I promised to bring him safe back after a turn or two up and down the
meadow; and when she looked at his eager face she smiled and let him go.
It was the first time she had even allowed me to take him so much as half
a field's length from her side.

[Picture: Moorland scene (with water): Haworth]

Enthroned upon his monstrous steed, and solemnly proceeding up and down
the wide, steep field, he looked the very incarnation of quiet, gleeful
satisfaction and delight. The rolling, however, was soon completed; but
when I dismounted the gallant horseman, and restored him to his mother,
she seemed rather displeased at my keeping him so long. She had shut up
her sketch-book, and been, probably, for some minutes impatiently waiting
his return.

It was now high time to go home, she said, and would have bid me
good-evening, but I was not going to leave her yet: I accompanied her
half-way up the hill. She became more sociable, and I was beginning to
be very happy; but, on coming within sight of the grim old hall, she
stood still, and turned towards me while she spoke, as if expecting I
should go no further, that the conversation would end here, and I should
now take leave and depart--as, indeed, it was time to do, for 'the clear,
cold eve' was fast 'declining,' the sun had set, and the gibbous moon was
visibly brightening in the pale grey sky; but a feeling almost of
compassion riveted me to the spot. It seemed hard to leave her to such a
lonely, comfortless home. I looked up at it. Silent and grim it
frowned; before us. A faint, red light was gleaming from the lower
windows of one wing, but all the other windows were in darkness, and many
exhibited their black, cavernous gulfs, entirely destitute of glazing or
framework.

'Do you not find it a desolate place to live in?' said I, after a moment
of silent contemplation.

'I do, sometimes,' replied she. 'On winter evenings, when Arthur is in
bed, and I am sitting there alone, hearing the bleak wind moaning round
me and howling through the ruinous old chambers, no books or occupations