d then, in
explanation of his advice, he explained the ancient Cumbrian land law,
by which a path becomes public property if a dead body is carried over
it.

Before long the procession had reached the mountain path across
Cockrigg Bank, and this path it was intended to follow as far as
Watendlath.

Here the Reverend Nicholas Stevens left the mourners. In accordance
with an old custom, he might have required that they should pass
through his chapel yard on the Raise before leaving the parish, but he
had waived his right to this tribute to episcopacy. After offering a
suitable blessing, he turned away, not without a withering glance at
the weaver, who was muttering rather too audibly an adaptation of the
rhyme,--

I'll set him up on yon crab-tree,
It's sour and dour, and so is he.

"I reckon," continued Matthew to little Reuben Thwaite, by his side,
as the procession started afresh,--"I reckon yon auld Nick," with a
lurch of his thumb over his shoulder, "likes Ash Wednesday better ner
this Wednesday--better ner ony Wednesday--for that's the day he curses
every yan all roond, and asks the folks to say Amen tul him."

The schoolmaster had walked demurely enough thus far; nor did the
departure of the clergyman effect a sensible elevation of his spirits.
Of all the mourners, the "laal limber Frenchman" was the most
mournful.

It was a cheerless winter morning when they set out from Shoulthwaite.
The wind had never fallen since the terrible night of the death of
Angus. As they ascended the fell, however, it was full noon. The sun
had broken languidly through the mists that had rolled midway across
the mountains, and were now being driven by the wind in a long white
continent towards the south, there to gather between more sheltered
headlands to the strength of rain. When they reached the top of the
Armboth Fell the sky was clear, the sun shone brightly and bathed the
gorse that stretched for miles around in varied shades of soft blue,
brightening in some places to purple, and in other places deepening to
black. The wind was stronger here than it had been in the valley, and
blew in gusts of all but overpowering fierceness from High Seat
towards Glaramara.

"This caps owte," said Matthew, as he lurched to the wind. "Yan
waddent hev a crowful of flesh on yan's bones an yan lived up here."

When the procession reached the village of Watendlath a pause was
made. From this point onward the journey through Borro