perhaps because I could not see a single factory chimney, look where I would.

Fifteen minutes after leaving Fawkshill I had reached the brow of the hill, and my spirits rose with a bound. Just in front of me, on a rising knoll, some fine sycamores and beeches clustered together, guarding the approach to a grey, ivy-coated hall. The rooks cawed dismally in the highest branches of the sycamores, the leaves of which were already beginning to fall. Autumn, apparently, lays her hand in good time upon the foliage in these northern regions, for some of the trees had already grown ruddy at her touch.

When I came to the bend of the road I think my heart stood still for a second or two. There in front of me and to my left—almost, as it seemed, at my feet—were the heather-covered moors, gloriously purple, and the tears came into my eyes. I could not help it; it was so unexpected, and it unlocked too suddenly the chamber where a memory was preserved—a hallowed, never-to-be-forgotten memory.

Years ago, and long before his sufferings ended, my father was leaning back in his chair one day, his hand clasping its arms, as his custom was, when there came into his eyes a look of inexpressible longing, almost of pain. I went and knelt by his side, and passed my hand gently through his hair, and asked, "What is it, dad dear?" He drew my face to his and answered sadly—it was little more than a whisper, for he was very weak,—"It was the heather calling me, lassie; I felt its sweet breath upon my cheek for a moment, and longed to fall upon its comfortable breast. But it cannot be; it cannot be!"

That was ten years ago, and now the heather was to call me and I was to respond to the call. How long I stood there, with the tear-drops dimming my vision, I do not know, but presently I became conscious of a village street, if the few houses which straggled back from the roadway could with any propriety be termed a village. I walked along the path and drank in every sight and sound, and thirsted for more. I thought, in the intoxication of that hour, that peace and contentment must be the portion of every dweller in that quiet spot. I know it will not be so, of course. I suppose sorrow and heartache may inhabit that quaint one-storeyed cottage from which the wreath of blue smoke curls so lazily; that the seeds of greed and falsehood and discontent may thrive and grow here, and be just as hateful and hideous as the flowers which fill the gardens around me are bright and beautiful. But for the moment I did not realise this.

A woman was washing the flags at her cottage door, and she smiled upon me as I passed. It was my first human welcome to the moors. At the sound of my footsteps a whole regiment of hens flew from the hilly field which was their pasture, and perched in line upon the wall to give me greeting.

I saw no sign of church or inn; no shop save a blacksmith's, and that was closed. The cottage windows and the little white curtains behind them were spotlessly clean. Within, I caught a glimpse here and there of shining steel and polished brass which sparkled in the firelight; and the comfort and cosiness of it all appealed to me strongly.

I do not think there are more than a score houses in the village, but before I had come to the end of the street my soul had made the discovery I referred to just now. "Surely," I said to myself, "it is good to be here; this people shall be my people."

It was doubtless a mad thing to say, but I was prospered in my madness. At the extreme end of the village, just past the little Methodist chapel which by its newness struck a jarring note in the otherwise perfect harmony, I saw a long, low building, of one storey like most of its fellows, roofed with stone, and fronted by a large garden. It was separated by a field-length from its nearest neighbour, and the field was just the side of a hill, nothing more. Two doors gave access to the building, which was apparently unevenly divided into two cottages, for a couple of windows appertained to the one door and one only to the other. A board at the bottom of the garden and abutting upon the road conveyed the information that this "Desirable cottage" was "to let, furnished."

Then and there I gave hostages to fortune. If that cottage was to be had for a sum which came within the limits of my slender purse, it should be mine from that hour. For I saw at a glance that it faced the moors and the sunset; and I vowed that the windows should be always open, so that the breath of the heather might have free entrance.

I pushed aside the little green gate and walked up the tiny path amid a profusion of flowers whose names are as yet unknown to me. I promise myself to know them all ere long: to know their habits and their humours: to learn their secrets and the story of their lives; but that is for the future. Something almost as sweet and dainty as the flowers claimed my attention first.

At the sound of the creaking gate, a dear old lady appeared at the door of the doll's house which was joined to my cottage and advanced to meet me. She had the pleasantest of faces, and was pink and pretty in spite of her sixty odd years. She wore a cap with strings, in the style of long ago: it was a rather jaunty cap and not devoid of colour. A faded shawl hung loosely around her shoulders, and a white apron protected her neat black frock. I saw at once that she was a nervous little body, yet there was dignity as well as deference in the face which looked smilingly into mine. But the manner of her address took my heart by storm. I had never been accosted in this way before, and I nearly took the old lady in my arms and kissed her. I have done since!

"Yes, love!" she said. It was not an inquiry exactly, though there may have been the faintest note of interrogation in her voice. It was as though I had told her of my desire to rent the cottage, and she was expressing a gratified assent.

"I see this little house is to let," I began; "may I look at it, and will you tell me all about it?"

"To be sure, love," was the reply. "Now, just come inside my cottage and rest yourself, and I'll pour you out a cup of tea if you're in no hurry, for there's sure to be someone passing who will tell Reuben Goodenough to come hither."

"How sweet of you!" I replied. "A cup of tea will be like the nectar of the gods. I will drink it thankfully."

The inside of that room was a revelation to me. It was, oh, so very, very small—the smallest living-room I am sure that I ever set eyes upon—but so marvellously clean, and so comfortably homelike that I uttered an exclamation of surprise and delight as I crossed the threshold.

The ceiling was of oak, with deep, broad, uneven beams of the same material, all dark and glossy with age. The stone floor was covered for the most part with druggeting, whilst a thick rug composed of small cuttings of black cloth with a design in scarlet was laid before the ample hearth. An old oak sideboard, or dresser, nearly filled the wall facing the window, and on its open shelves was an array of china which would make some people I know break the tenth commandment. A magnificent grandfather's clock, also in oak, with wonderful carving, ticked importantly in one corner, and a capacious cupboard filled another.

The wall decorations consisted of a bright but battered copper warming-pan, which hung perpendicularly from the ceiling, looking like the immense pendulum of some giant clock; and three "pictures" which aroused my interest. Two of them were framed examples of their owner's skill in needlework, as evidenced by the inscription, carefully worked in coloured wool—"Mary Jackson, her work, aged 13." The letters of the alphabet, and the numerals from 1 to 20, with certain enigmatical figures which I took to represent flowers, completed the one effort, whilst familiar texts of Scripture, after the style of "Thou God Seest Me," made up the other.

The third frame was of mahogany like the others, and contained a collection of deep, black-edged funeral cards of ancient date.