as
said of the Judge, and truly, that he had the happiest home, the
fairest and wisest wife, and the goodliest young family, of any man in
the county. That had been a joyful day, indeed, for him, twenty years
before, when he brought the golden-haired Margaret Askew, the heiress
of Marsh Grange, as his bride to the old grey Hall of Swarthmoor.
Sixteen full years younger than her husband was she, yet a wondrous
wise-hearted woman, and his companion in all things.

Now that a son and six fair daughters filled the old Hall with music
and gay laughter all day long, the Judge might well be no less proud
of his 'great family' than even of having been Oliver Cromwell's
friend.

He was ever loath to leave that cherished home for his long absences
on the Chester and North Welsh Circuit, and ever joyful when the day
came that he might return thither. Even the heavy sand that clogged
his horse's feet could hardly make him check his pace. The sands of
Morecambe Bay are perilous at times, especially to strangers, for the
tide flows in with such swiftness that even a galloping horse may not
escape it. But the Judge and his companions knew the dangers well
enough to avoid them. Their trained eyes instinctively marked the
slight depressions in the sand and the line of brogs, or half-hidden
trees, that guide travellers across by what is really the safest
route, although it may seem to take unnecessary loops and curves.[11]
At a little distance lay the lonely Chapel Island, surrounded by the
sea even at low tide, where in olden days lived a community of monks,
who tolled a bell to guide pilgrims across the shifting sands, or said
masses for the souls of those who perished.

As his horse picked its way carefully, the Judge raised his eyes often
towards the high plateau on the horizon to which he was steadily
drawing nearer with every tedious step. Beloved Swarthmoor! The house
itself was hidden, but he could plainly discern the belt of trees in
which it stood. He thought of each of the inmates of that hidden home.
George, his only son, how straight and tall he was growing, how
gallant a rider, and how skilful a sportsman even now, though hasty in
temper and over apt to take offence. His gay maidens, were they at
this moment singing over some new madrigal prepared to greet him on
his return? In an hour or two he should see them all running down the
garden path to welcome him, from stately 'young Margrett' to little
toddling Susanna. His