ll opportunities allowed; on one side
foamed the said grey-green expanse of sea; on the other lay a little
lakelet, shining in the setting sun: in front, at some distance, a
rivulet ran from the lake to the sea. On the nearer side of the brook
lay a little village; while on the further bank was a large, well-kept
park, in which stood a grey quadrangular mansion. Beyond the park,
nearly as far as the eye could reach, stretched a wide, dreary swamp,
bounded only by the sea on the one hand and the lake on the other. The
only pretty or pleasant features in the landscape were the village and
park; and little could be seen of those for intervening sandhills.

The lake was Marton Mere; the swamp was Marton Moss; and the district
was the Fylde of Lancashire. The County Palatine was renowned, at that
time, in the eyes of the Londoners, for its air, which was "subtile and
piercing," without any "gross vapours nor foggie mists;" for the
abundance and excellence of its cattle, which were sent even then to the
metropolis; for the plentiful variety of its provisions; for its
magnificent woods, "preserved by gentlemen for beauty," to such an
extent that no wood was used for fuel, and its place was supplied by
"sea-coal" and turf; for its numerous churches, "in no part of the land
more in proportion to the inhabitants." But the good qualities of the
County Palatine were not likely to be appreciated by our weary
travellers.

The travellers were three in number:--a short, thick-set man, in a coat
of frieze as rough as his surroundings; a woman, and a child; lastly
came a pack-horse, bearing a quantity of luggage.

"Eh me!" ejaculated Barbara Polwhele, with a weary sigh. "Master, doth
any man live hereaway?"

"Eh?" queried the man, not looking back.

Barbara repeated her question.

"Ay," said he in a rough voice.

"By 'r Lady!" exclaimed Barbara, pityingly. "What manner of folk be
they, I marvel?"

"Me an' th' rest," said the man.

"Eh? what, you never--Be we anear Enville Court now?"

"O'er yon," replied the man, pointing straight forward with his whip,
and then giving it a sharp crack, as a reminder to the galloways.

"What, in the midst of yonder marsh?" cried poor Barbara.

Dick gave a hoarse chuckle, but made no other reply. Barbara's
sensations were coming very near despair.

"What call men your name, Master?" she demanded, after some minutes'
gloomy meditation.

"Name?" echoed the stolid individual before