colours were mingling, deepening, and fading away—­the tremulous drapery woven by angel hands, behind which the bridegroom of day was hiding his splendour and his strength.  Soft herbage yielded to the tread, and warm stretches of peaty soil lay like bars across the green and gray and gold of what seemed to Mr. Penrose the shoreless waste of moor.  On distant hills stood lone farmsteads, their little windows glowing with the lingering beams of the setting sun; the low of kine, the bay of dog, and the shout of shepherd, softened into sweetest sounds as they travelled from far along the wings of the evening wind.  It was the hour when Nature rests, and when man meditates—­if the soul of meditation be his.

After a silence of some minutes Enoch turned to Mr. Penrose and said: 

‘Jokin’ aside, Mr. Penrose, that owd flute yo’ yerd me playin’ this afternoon is a part o’ my life.  Let’s sit daan i’ this nook and I’ll tell yo’ all abaat it.  Three times in mi history it’s bin mi salvation.  Th’ first wor when I lost mi brass.  We lived daan at th’ Brig then, and I ran th’ factory.  I wor thirty-five year owd, and hed a tidy bit o’ brass, when they geet me to put a twothree hunderd in a speculation.  Ay, dear!  I wor fool enugh not to let weel alone.  I did as they wanted me.  Me, and Bill Stott’s faither, and owd Jerry o’ th’ Moss went in together heavy, and we lost every farthin’.  I shall never forgeet it.  It wor Sunday mornin’ when th’ news coome fro’ th’ lawyer.  I wor i’ bed when th’ missis gav me th’ letter, and I could tell by her face summat wor wrang.  “What is it, lass?” I axed.  “What a towd thee it would be,” hoo said.  “We are ruined.”  “Thaa never sez so!” I shaated.  “It’s paper as says so,” hoo said, “noan me,” and hoo handed me th’ lawyer’s letter.  I tried to get aat o’ bed, Mr. Penrose, but when I set mi feet on th’ floor, I couldn’t ston’.  “I’ve lost my legs, missis,” I cried.  “Nay, lad, thank God, thaa’s getten thi legs yet; it’s thi brass thaa’s lost!” I shall never forgeet those days.  Then came th’ sale, and th’ flittin’, an’ all th’ black looks.  Yo’ know yor friends when th’ brass goes, Mr. Penrose.  Poverty’s a rare hond for pikin’ aat hypocrites.  It maks no mistakes; it tells yo’ who’s who.  We’d scarce a friend i’ those days.  I wor weeks and never held up mi yed, and noabry but th’ missis to speak to.  Then it wor th’ owd flute coome to mi help.  I’d nobbud to tak’ it up, and put it to mi lips, and it ud begin to speyk.  Yi, an’ it cried an’ o’, and took my sorrow on itsel, and shifted it away fro’ me.  I’ve played o’ th’ neet thro’ on these moors, Mr. Penrose, when I couldn’t sleep i’ bed, or stay i’ th’ haas.  It’s a grond thing, is music, when yo’re brokken-hearted.  If ever yo’ marry and hev childer, teach ’em music—­a chap as con play con feight th’ devil so much better nor him as cornd.’

Old Enoch took his cap from his head, and wiped his brow, and continued: