’You are coming to the house of my old nurse in the hills a quarter of a mile further on.  I did not understand you to mean that you would not go through that place.’

‘Does the man keep another Hollow for himself?’ said Wych Hazel.  ’I am glad we are going to the hills, if only to help me forget the valley.  How can people live so!  And oh! how can people let them!’

’This is a concomitant of great civilization.  I saw no such place when I was in Norway,’ Dane observed.

‘And was—­what is her name?—­living there when you came home?’

’Gyda?  Down in the Hollow!  O no.  I had established her up here in comfort before I left her.’

More and more lovely, wild and lonely, the scenery grew; the road getting deeper among the hills and winding higher and higher with the head of the valley.  Then they came to the cottage, the only one in sight; a low house of grey stone, set with its back against the woods which covered the hill.  A little cleared and cultivated ground close to it, and in front the road.  Rollo dismounted, fastened his horse, and took Wych Hazel down.

‘Do you like to come to such places?’ he asked as he was tying the brown mare to the fence.

‘I know very little about them,’ she said. ’This looks like a place to come to.’

‘It is unique,’ said Rollo, as he led the way in.

He opened the door softly.  An utterance of joy Wych Hazel heard, before she could see the person from whom it came.  Rollo turned and presented Miss Kennedy then.  It was that.  He did not present old Gyda to her.  And then Wych Hazel was established in the best chair, and could look at her leisure, for at first she was not the one attended to.

She saw a little person, with a brown face, much shrivelled; which yet possessed two sparkling keen black eyes.  There was not a pretty feature in the old woman’s face, for the eyes were not beautiful now, in any sensuous meaning of beauty.  And yet, as Wych Hazel looked, presently the word ‘lovely’ was the word that came up to her.  That was of course due only to the pervading expression; which was pure, loving and refined far beyond what the young lady had often seen.  She was dressed in a short jacket of dark cloth, braided with bright braid, and fastened at the throat with a large silver brooch.  Her petticoat was of the same cloth, drawn up plain over the bosom in an ungraceful manner; her head was covered with a coloured handkerchief, tied so that the ends hung down the back.

After seeing Wych Hazel seated, she for the moment paid her no further attention.  Rollo had sat down too; and the old woman came close in front of him and stood looking silently, her head reaching then only a little above his shoulders.  She was old, undeniably; however, it was an entirely vigorous and hearty age.  Her hand presently came to Rollo’s face, pushing back the thick and somewhat curly locks from his temples, and then taking his head in both hands she kissed first one cheek and then the other.