f holiday-makers. Just before reaching Sleights Bridge we
leave the tree-embowered road, and, going through a gate, find a
stone-flagged pathway that climbs up the side of the valley with great
deliberation, so that we are soon at a great height, with a magnificent
sweep of landscape towards the south-west, and the keen air blowing
freshly from the great table-land of Egton High Moor.

A little higher, and we are on the road in Aislaby village. The steep
climb from the river and railway has kept off those modern influences
which have made Sleights and Grosmont architecturally depressing, and
thus we find a simple village on the edge of the heather, with
picturesque stone cottages and pretty gardens, free from companionship
with the painfully ugly modern stone house, with its thin slate roof.
The big house of the village stands on the very edge of the descent,
surrounded by high trees now swept bare of leaves.

The first time I visited Aislaby I reached the little hamlet when it was
nearly dark. Sufficient light, however, remained in the west to show up
the large house standing in the midst of the swaying branches. One dim
light appeared in the blue-gray mass, and the dead leaves were blown
fiercely by the strong gusts of wind. On the other side of the road
stood an old gray house, whose appearance that gloomy evening well
supported the statement that it was haunted. The classic front appeared
behind an imposing gateway approached by a curious flat bridge across a
circular pond which had a solid stone edging. The low parapets of the
bridge were cut into a strange serpentine form. I gazed at the front of
the house, backed by the dim outline of the moor beyond; but, though the
place was silent enough, I could hear no strange sounds, and the windows
remained black and impassive.

I left the village in the gathering gloom and was soon out on the
heather. Away on the left, but scarcely discernible, was Swart Houe
Cross, on Egton Low Moor, and straight in front lay the Skelder Inn. A
light gleamed from one of the lower windows, and by it I guided my
steps, being determined to partake of tea before turning my steps
homeward. I stepped into the little parlour, with its sanded floor, and
demanded 'fat rascals' and tea. The girl was not surprised at my
request, for the hot turf cakes supplied at the inn are known to all the
neighbourhood by this unusual name, although they are not particularly
fat, and are so extremely palatable