“Well, let’s go on, and find some farm where we can put up.”  In uttering those words, he was conscious of a girl coming down from the common just above them.  She was outlined against the sky, carrying a basket, and you could see that sky through the crook of her arm.  And Ashurst, who saw beauty without wondering how it could advantage him, thought:  ’How pretty!’ The wind, blowing her dark frieze skirt against her legs, lifted her battered peacock tam-o’-shanter; her greyish blouse was worn and old, her shoes were split, her little hands rough and red, her neck browned.  Her dark hair waved untidy across her broad forehead, her face was short, her upper lip short, showing a glint of teeth, her brows were straight and dark, her lashes long and dark, her nose straight; but her grey eyes were the wonder-dewy as if opened for the first time that day.  She looked at Ashurst—­perhaps he struck her as strange, limping along without a hat, with his large eyes on her, and his hair falling back.  He could not take off what was not on his head, but put up his hand in a salute, and said: 

“Can you tell us if there’s a farm near here where we could stay the night?  I’ve gone lame.”

“There’s only our farm near, sir.”  She spoke without shyness, in a pretty soft crisp voice.

“And where is that?”

“Down here, sir.”

“Would you put us up?”

“Oh!  I think we would.”

“Will you show us the way?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He limped on, silent, and Garton took up the catechism.

“Are you a Devonshire girl?”

“No, Sir.”

“What then?”

“From Wales.”

“Ah!  I thought you were a Celt; so it’s not your farm?”

“My aunt’s, sir.”

“And your uncle’s?”

“He is dead.”

“Who farms it, then?”

“My aunt, and my three cousins.”

“But your uncle was a Devonshire man?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Have you lived here long?” “Seven years.”

“And how d’you like it after Wales?” “I don’t know, sir.”

“I suppose you don’t remember?” “Oh, yes!  But it is different.”

“I believe you!”

Ashurst broke in suddenly:  “How old are you?”

“Seventeen, Sir.”

“And what’s your name?” “Megan David.”

“This is Robert Garton, and I am Frank Ashurst.  We wanted to get on to Chagford.”

“It is a pity your leg is hurting you.”

Ashurst smiled, and when he smiled his face was rather beautiful.

Descending past the narrow wood, they came on the farm suddenly-a long, low, stone-built dwelling with casement windows, in a farmyard where pigs and fowls and an old mare were straying.  A short steep-up grass hill behind was crowned with a few Scotch firs, and in front, an old orchard of apple trees, just breaking into flower, stretched down to a stream and a long wild meadow.  A little boy with oblique dark eyes was shepherding a pig, and by the house door stood a woman, who came towards them.  The girl said: