“The li’l chamber over the door was mine,” she said; “an’ your poor uncle had the next.  I can just mind him, allus at his books, to his faither’s pride.  Then he went away to Newton to join some lawyer body an’ larn his business.  An’ I mind the two small maids as was my elder sisters and comed betwixt me an’ Joel.  Both died—­like candles blawed out roughly by the wind.  They wasn’t made o’ the stuff to stand Dartymoor winters.”

She paused for a few moments, then proceeded: 

“Theer, to west of the yard, is a croft as had corn in it wan year, though ’tis permanent grass now, seemin’ly.  Your faither corned through theer like a snake by night more’n wance; an’ oftentimes I crept down house, shivering wi’ fear an’ love, to meet him under moonlight while the auld folks slept.  Tim he’d grawed to a power wi’ the gypsy people by that time; but faither was allus hard against un.  He hated wanderers in tents or ’pon wheels, or even sea-gwaine sailor-men—­he carried it that far.  Then comed a peep o’ day when Tim’s bonny yellow caravan ’peared around the corner of that windin’ road what goes all across the Moor.  At the first stirring of light, I was ready an’ skipped out; an’, to this hour, I mind the last thing as touched me kindly was the red tongue of the sheep-dog.  He ran a mile after the van, unhappy-like; then Tim ordered un away, an’ he stood in the white road an’ held up his paw an’ axed a question as plain as a human.  So Tim hit un hard wi’ a gert stone, an’ he yelped an’ gived me up for lost, an’ bolted home wi’ his tail between his legs an’ his eye thrawed back full of sadness over his shoulder.  Ess fay!  I can see the dust puffin’ up under his pads in the grey dawn so clear as I can see you.”

Again she stopped, but only for breath.

“They never answered my writings.  Faither wouldn’t an’ mother didn’t dare.  But when I was near my time, Timothy, reckoning they’d yield then if ever, arranged to be in Chagford when I should be brought to bed.  Yet ‘twas ordained differ’nt, an’ the roundy-poundy, wheer the caravan was drawed up when the moment corned, be just round theer on Metherill hill, as you knaws.  So it happened right under the very walls of Newtake.  In the stone circle you comed; an’ by night arterwards, sweatin’ for terror, your gran’mother, as had heard tell of it, sneaked from Newtake to kiss me an’ press you to her body.  Faither never knawed till long arter; an’ though mother used to say she heard un forgive me on his death-bed, ’twas her awn pious wish echoing in her awn ears I reckon.  But that’s all awver an’ done.”

Mrs. Blanchard now sank into silent perambulation of the deserted chambers.  In the kitchen the whitewash was grimy, the ceiling and windows unclean.  Ashes of a peat fire still lay upon the cracked hearthstone, and a pair of worn-out boots, left by a tramp or the last tenant, stood on the window-sill.  Dust and filth were everywhere, but no indication of dampness or decay.