is, and its learned antiquaries,
in self-defence, assured me that, if she had been a Roman remain they
would have known all about her.

"But how do you know that she is not a Roman remain?" I asked. "Nobody
can tell a woman's age. She may even be a solar myth."

Say what I might, I could not induce Halifax to join in "the quest of
Throppes wife"; it savoured too much of quixotry for sober-minded
Halifax.

I now realised that the quest must be a solitary one, and I consoled
myself with the thought that, if the ardours of the pilgrimage were
unshared, so would be the glory of the prize. Fired with new enthusiasm,
I shouted the name of Throp's wife to the everlasting hills, and the
everlasting hills gave back the slogan in reverberating echoes--"Throp's
wahfe." By midday I had reached the summit of Stanbury Moor, and the
question was whether I should descend the populous Worth Valley to
Keighley or strike northwards across the hills. Instinct impelled me to
the latter course, and instinct was right. Late in the afternoon, faint
but pursuing, I reached a hill-top village which the map seemed to
identify with a certain Cowling Hill, but which was always spoken of as
Cohen-eead.

I made my way to "The Golden Fleece," and there, in the bar parlour, I
met an old man and a merry. His face was as round and almost as red as a
Dutch cheese, and many a year had passed since he had last seen his
feet. I felt drawn to this old man, whose baptismal name was Timothy
Barraclough, but who always answered to the by-name of Tim o' Frolics;
and when we had politely assured one another that it was grand weather
for the hay and that lambs would soon be making a tidy price at Colne
market, I spoke to him of the quest.

At first he remained silent, but after a few moments his blue eyes began
to twinkle like stars in the firmament, and then, slapping his knees
with both hands, he broke into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

"Ay, ay," he said, "I know all about Throp's wife. Shoo lived at
Cohen-eead, an' my mother telled me t' tale when I were nobbut a barn."

As I heard these words, I almost leaped for joy, and could have thrown
my arms about the old man's neck, and embraced him. Remembering Pudsey,
however, I refrained, but urged Tim o' Frolics to tell me all he knew.

"Throp was a farmer," he began, "and lived out Cornshaw way. He was a
hard-workin' man, was Throp, but I reckon all his wark were nobbut
laikin' anent what his wife cou