A few minutes later the twinkling lights of the village came in sight, and from within the sombre form of the square-towered church, looming by the roadside, the slow, solemn strains of the organ floated out on the evening air.  Anthony lightened his tread:  then paused, listening; but, presently, becoming aware that a man stood, listening also, on the bridge some few yards distant, he moved forward again.  Slackening his pace, as he approached, he eyed the figure keenly; but the man paid no heed to him, remaining, with his back turned, gazing over the parapet into the dark, gurgling stream.

Anthony trudged along the empty village street, past the gleaming squares of ruddy gold, starting on either side out of the darkness.  Now and then he looked furtively backwards.  The straight open road lay behind him, glimmering wanly:  the organ seemed to have ceased:  the figure on the bridge had left the parapet, and appeared to be moving away towards the church.  Anthony halted, watching it till it had disappeared into the blackness beneath the churchyard trees.  Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he left the road, and mounted an upland meadow towards his mother’s farm.

It was a bare, oblong house.  In front, a whitewashed porch, and a narrow garden-plot, enclosed by a low iron railing, were dimly discernible:  behind, the steep fell-side loomed like a monstrous, mysterious curtain hung across the night.  He passed round the back into the twilight of a wide yard, cobbled and partially grass-grown, vaguely flanked by the shadowy outlines of long, low farm-buildings.  All was wrapped in darkness:  somewhere overhead a bat fluttered, darting its puny scream.

Inside, a blazing peat-fire scattered capering shadows across the smooth, stone floor, flickered among the dim rows of hams suspended from the ceiling and on the panelled cupboards of dark, glistening oak.  A servant-girl, spreading the cloth for supper, clattered her clogs in and out of the kitchen:  old Mrs. Garstin was stooping before the hearth, tremulously turning some girdle-cakes that lay roasting in the embers.

At the sound of Anthony’s heavy tread in the passage, she rose, glancing sharply at the clock above the chimney-piece.  She was a heavy-built woman, upright, stalwart almost, despite her years.  Her face was gaunt and sallow; deep wrinkles accentuated the hardness of her features.  She wore a black widow’s cap above her iron-grey hair, gold-rimmed spectacles, and a soiled, chequered apron.

‘Ye’re varra late, Tony,’ she remarked querulously.

He unloosened his woollen neckerchief, and when he had hung it methodically with his hat behind the door, answered: 

‘’Twas terrible thick on t’ fell-top, an’ them two bitches be that senseless.’

She caught his sleeve, and, through her spectacles, suspiciously scrutinized his face.

‘Ye did na meet wi’ Rosa Blencarn?’

‘Nay, she was in church, hymn-playin’, wi’ Luke Stock hangin’ roond door,’ he retorted bitterly, rebuffing her with rough impatience.