ng the heather,
and there are many places where a horse would be a source of danger. The
sides of the valley are closely wooded for the first seven or eight
miles north of Pickering, but the surrounding country gradually loses
its cultivation, at first gorse and bracken, and then heather, taking
the place of the green pastures.

At the village of Newton, perched on high ground far above the dale, we
come to the limit of civilization. The sun is nearly setting. The
cottages are scattered along the wide roadway and the strip of grass,
broken by two large ponds, which just now reflect the pale evening sky.
Straight in front, across the green, some ancient barns are thrown up
against the golden sunset, and the long perspective of white road, the
geese, and some whitewashed gables, stand out from the deepening tones
of the grass and trees. A footpath by the inn leads through some dewy
meadows to the woods, above Levisham Station in the valley below. At
first there are glimpses of the lofty moors on the opposite side of the
dale, where the sides of the bluffs are still glowing in the sunset
light; but soon the pathway plunges steeply into a close wood, where the
foxes are barking, and where the intense darkness is only emphasized by
the momentary illumination given by lightning, which now and then
flickers in the direction of Lockton Moor. At last the friendly little
oil-lamps on the platform at Levisham Station appear just below, and
soon the railway is crossed and we are mounting the steep road on the
opposite side of the valley. What is left of the waning light shows the
rough track over the heather to High Horcum. The huge shoulders of the
moors are now majestically indistinct, and towards the west the browns,
purples, and greens are all merged in one unfathomable blackness. The
tremendous silence and the desolation become almost oppressive, but
overhead the familiar arrangement of the constellations gives a sense of
companionship not to be slighted. In something less than an hour a light
glows in the distance, and, although the darkness is now complete, there
is no further need to trouble ourselves with the thought of spending the
night on the heather. The point of light develops into a lighted window,
and we are soon stamping our feet on the hard, smooth road in front of
the Saltersgate Inn. The door opens straight into a large stone-flagged
room. Everything is redolent of coaching days, for the cheery glow of
the fire