-"Bat and Zilpic, Maunder and Insie, of the Gill"--had nothing to
do with, and little to say to, any of the scatterling folk about them,
across the blue distance of the moor. They ploughed no land, they kept
no cattle, they scarcely put spade in the ground, except for about a
fortnight in April, when they broke up a strip of alluvial soil new
every season, and abutting on the brook; and there sowed or planted
their vegetable crop, and left it to the clemency of heaven. Yet twice
every year they were ready with their rent when it suited Master Jordas
to come for it, since audits at the hall, and tenants' dinners, were not
to their liking. The rent was a trifle; but Jordas respected them highly
for handing it done up in white paper, without even making him leave
the saddle. How many paid less, or paid nothing at all, yet came to
the dinners under rent reservation of perhaps one mark, then strictly
reserved their rent, but failed not to make the most punctual and
liberal marks upon roast beef and plum-pudding!

But while the worthy dogman got his little bit of money, sealed up and
so correct that (careful as he was) he never stopped now to count it,
even his keen eyes could make nothing of these people, except that they
stood upon their dignity. To him they appeared to be of gypsy race; or
partly of wild and partly perhaps of Lancastrian origin; for they rather
"featured" the Lancashire than the Yorkshire type of countenance, yet
without any rustic coarseness, whether of aspect, voice, or manners.
The story of their settlement in this glen had flagged out of memory of
gossip by reason of their calm obscurity, and all that survived was the
belief that they were queer, and the certainty that they would not be
meddled with.

Lancelot Yordas Carnaby was brave, both in the outward and the inward
boy, when he struck into the gill from a trackless spread of moor, not
far from the source of the beck that had shaped or been shaped by this
fissure. He had made up his mind to learn all about the water that
filled sweet Insie's pitcher; and although the great poet of nature as
yet was only in early utterance, some of his words had already touched
Pet as he had never been touched before; but perhaps that fine effect
was due to the sapping power of first love.

Yet first love, however it may soften and enlarge a petulant and wayward
nature, instead of increasing, cuts short and crisp the patience of the
patient. When Lancelot was as n