y on in
company, and then their converse is more serious, as becomes those who
have joined hands and are moving onward towards life together. Later
they reach sad, weary towns, black beneath a never-lifted pall of smoke,
where day and night the clang of iron drowns all human voices, where the
children play with ashes, where the men and women have dull, patient
faces; and so on, muddy and stained, to the deep sea that ceaselessly
calls to them. Here, however, their waters are fresh and clear, and
their passing makes the only stir that the valley has ever known. Surely,
of all peaceful places, this was the one where a tired worker might find
strength.

My one-eyed friend had suggested I should seek lodgings at the house of
one Mistress Cholmondley, a widow lady, who resided with her only
daughter in the white-washed cottage that is the last house in the
village, if you take the road that leads over Coll Fell.

"Tha' can see th' house from here, by reason o' its standing so high
above t'others," said the carrier, pointing with his whip. "It's theer
or nowhere, aw'm thinking, for folks don't often coom seeking lodgings in
these parts."

The tiny dwelling, half smothered in June roses, looked idyllic, and
after a lunch of bread and cheese at the little inn I made my way to it
by the path that passes through the churchyard. I had conjured up the
vision of a stout, pleasant, comfort-radiating woman, assisted by some
bright, fresh girl, whose rosy cheeks and sunburnt hands would help me
banish from my mind all clogging recollections of the town; and hopeful,
I pushed back the half-opened door and entered.

The cottage was furnished with a taste that surprised me, but in
themselves my hosts disappointed me. My bustling, comely housewife
turned out a wizened, blear-eyed dame. All day long she dozed in her big
chair, or crouched with shrivelled hands spread out before the fire. My
dream of winsome maidenhood vanished before the reality of a
weary-looking, sharp-featured woman of between forty and fifty. Perhaps
there had been a time when the listless eyes had sparkled with roguish
merriment, when the shrivelled, tight-drawn lips had pouted temptingly;
but spinsterhood does not sweeten the juices of a woman, and strong
country air, though, like old ale, it is good when taken occasionally,
dulls the brain if lived upon. A narrow, uninteresting woman I found
her, troubled with a shyness that sat ludicrously upon her age