ive miles from his station. It is still visible
along with several stones lying near, and which are evidently from the
same rock as that on which it is said he slept."

"I've heard such silly tales often. Nurse had many of these old
stories wherewith to beguile us o' winter nights. She used to tell,
too, about Eleanor Byron, who loved a fay or elf, and went to meet him
at the fairies' chapel away yonder where the Spodden gushes through
its rocky cleft,--'tis a fearful story,--and how she was delivered
from the spell. I sometimes think on't till my very flesh creeps, and
I could almost fancy that such an invisible thing is about me."

With such converse did they beguile their evening walk, ever and anon
making the subject bend to the burden of their own sweet ditty of
mutual _unchanging_ love!

Grace Ashton was the only daughter of a wealthy yeoman, one of the
gentry of that district, residing at Clegg Hall, a mile or two
distant. Its dark low gables and quiet smoke might easily be
distinguished from where they stood. It was said that the Cleggs, its
original owners, had been beggared and dispossessed by vexatious and
fraudulent lawsuits; and the Ashtons had achieved their purpose by
dishonesty and chicane. However this might be, busy rumour gave
currency and credit to the tale, though probably it had none other
foundation than the idle and malevolent gossip of the envious and the
unthinking.

[Illustration "THE THRUTCH," NEAR ROCHDALE.
_Drawn by G. Pickering._
_Engraved by Edw^d Finden._]

They had toiled up a narrow pathway on the right of a woody ravine,
where the stream had evidently formed itself a passage through the
loose strata in its course. The brook was heard, though hidden by the
tangled underwood, and they stopped to listen. Soothing but melancholy
was the sound. Even the birds seemed to chirp there in a sad and
pensive twitter, not unnoticed by the lovers, though each kept the
gloomy and fanciful apprehensions untold.

Soon they gained the summit of a round heathery knoll, whence an
extensive prospect rewarded their ascent. The squat, square tower of
Rochdale Church might be seen above the dark trees nestling under its
grey walls. The town was almost hidden by a glowing canopy of smoke
gleaming in the bright sunset--towards the north the bare bleak hills,
undulating in sterile loneliness, and associating only with images of
barrenness and desolation. Easterly, a long, level burst of light
swept