Overhead hung a sombre, drifting sky.  A gusty wind rollicked down from the fell—­huge masses of chilly grey, stripped of the last night’s mist.  A few dead leaves fluttered over the stones, and from off the fell-side there floated the plaintive, quavering rumour of many bleating sheep.

Before long, he caught sight of two figures coming towards him, slowly climbing the hill.  He sat awaiting their approach, fidgeting with his sandy beard, and abstractedly grinding the ground beneath his heel.  At the brow they halted:  plunging his hands deep into his pockets, he strolled sheepishly towards them.

‘Ah! good day t’ ye, Anthony,’ called the old man, in a shrill, breathless voice. ‘’Tis a long hill, an’ my legs are not what they were.  Time was when I’d think nought o’ a whole day’s tramp on t’ fells.  Ay, I’m gittin’ feeble, Anthony, that’s what ’tis.  And if Rosa here wasn’t the great, strong lass she is, I don’t know how her old uncle’d manage;’ and he turned to the girl with a proud, tremulous smile.

‘Will ye tak my arm a bit, Mr. Blencarn?  Miss Rosa’ll be tired, likely,’ Anthony asked.

‘Nay, Mr. Garstin, but I can manage nicely,’ the girl interrupted sharply.

Anthony looked up at her as she spoke.  She wore a straw hat, trimmed with crimson velvet, and a black, fur-edged cape, that seemed to set off mightily the fine whiteness of her neck.  Her large, dark eyes were fixed upon him.  He shifted his feet uneasily, and dropped his glance.

She linked her uncle’s arm in hers, and the three moved slowly forward.  Old Mr. Blencarn walked with difficulty, pausing at intervals for breath.  Anthony, his eyes bent on the ground, sauntered beside him, clumsily kicking at the cobbles that lay in his path.

When they reached the vicarage gate, the old man asked him to come inside.

‘Not jest now, thank ye, Mr. Blencarn.  I’ve that lot o’ lambs t’ see to before dinner.  It’s a grand marnin’, this,’ he added, inconsequently.

‘Uncle’s bought a nice lot o’ Leghorns, Tuesday,’ Rosa remarked.  Anthony met her gaze; there was a grave, subdued expression on her face this morning, that made her look more of a woman, less of a girl.

’Ay, do ye show him the birds, Rosa.  I’d be glad to have his opinion on ‘em.’

The old man turned to hobble into the house, and Rosa, as she supported his arm, called back over her shoulder: 

‘I’ll not be a minute, Mr. Garstin.’

Anthony strolled round to the yard behind the house, and waited, watching a flock of glossy-white poultry that strutted, perkily pecking, over the grass-grown cobbles.

‘Ay, Miss Rosa, they’re a bonny lot,’ he remarked, as the girl joined him.

‘Are they not?’ she rejoined, scattering a handful of corn before her.

The birds scuttled across the yard with greedy, outstretched necks.  The two stood, side by side, gazing at them.