boundary of the field itself.  The buildings were long and low, in order to avoid the rough violence of the winds that swept over that wild, bleak spot, both in winter and summer.  It was well for the inhabitants of that house that coal was extremely cheap; otherwise a southerner might have imagined that they could never have survived the cutting of the bitter gales that piped all round, and seemed to seek out every crevice for admission into the house.

But the interior was warm enough when once you had mounted the long bleak lane, full of round rough stones, enough to lame any horse unaccustomed to such roads, and had crossed the field by the little dry, hard footpath, which tacked about so as to keep from directly facing the prevailing wind.  Mrs. Robson was a Cumberland woman, and as such, was a cleaner housewife than the farmers’ wives of that north-eastern coast, and was often shocked at their ways, showing it more by her looks than by her words, for she was not a great talker.  This fastidiousness in such matters made her own house extremely comfortable, but did not tend to render her popular among her neighbours.  Indeed, Bell Robson piqued herself on her housekeeping generally, and once in-doors in the gray, bare stone house, there were plenty of comforts to be had besides cleanliness and warmth.  The great rack of clap-bread hung overhead, and Bell Robson’s preference of this kind of oat-cake over the leavened and partly sour kind used in Yorkshire was another source of her unpopularity.  Flitches of bacon and ‘hands’ (i.e., shoulders of cured pork, the legs or hams being sold, as fetching a better price) abounded; and for any visitor who could stay, neither cream nor finest wheaten flour was wanting for ‘turf cakes’ and ‘singing hinnies,’ with which it is the delight of the northern housewives to regale the honoured guest, as he sips their high-priced tea, sweetened with dainty sugar.

This night farmer Robson was fidgeting in and out of his house-door, climbing the little eminence in the field, and coming down disappointed in a state of fretful impatience.  His quiet, taciturn wife was a little put out by Sylvia’s non-appearance too; but she showed her anxiety by being shorter than usual in her replies to his perpetual wonders as to where the lass could have been tarrying, and by knitting away with extra diligence.

‘I’ve a vast o’ mind to go down to Monkshaven mysen, and see after t’ child.  It’s well on for seven.’

‘No, Dannel,’ said his wife; ’thou’d best not.  Thy leg has been paining thee this week past, and thou’rt not up to such a walk.  I’ll rouse Kester, and send him off, if thou think’st there’s need on it.’

‘A’ll noan ha’ Kester roused.  Who’s to go afield betimes after t’ sheep in t’ morn, if he’s ca’ed up to-neet?  He’d miss t’ lass, and find a public-house, a reckon,’ said Daniel, querulously.

‘I’m not afeard o’ Kester,’ replied Bell.  ’He’s a good one for knowing folk i’ th’ dark.  But if thou’d rather, I’ll put on my hood and cloak and just go to th’ end o’ th’ lane, if thou’lt have an eye to th’ milk, and see as it does na’ boil o’er, for she canna stomach it if it’s bishopped e’er so little.’