S.,” and then, a little lower down, and partly between these, the letter “P.,” as if intended for “John and Sarah Pilkington.”  On the lower slope of the hill, immediately in front of the house there was a kind of kitchen garden, well stocked, and in very fair order.  Above the garden, the wild moorland rose steeply up, marked with wandering sheep tracts.  From the back of the house, a little flower garden sloped away to the edge of a rocky back.  The moorland stream rushed wildly along its narrow channel, a few yards below; and, viewed from the garden wall, at the edge of the bank, it was a weird bit of stream scenery.  The water rushed and roared here; there it played a thousand pranks; and there, again, it was full of graceful eddies; gliding away at last over the smooth lip of a worn rock, a few yards lower down.  A kind of green gloom pervaded the watery chasm, caused by the thick shade of trees overspreading from the opposite bank.  It was a spot that a painter might have chosen for “The Kelpie’s Home.”

The cottage door was open; and I guessed by the silence inside that old “Jone” had not reached home.  His wife, Nanny, was a hale and cheerful woman, with a fastidious love of cleanliness, and order, and quietness, too, for she was more than seventy years of age.  I found her knitting, and slowly swaying her portly form to and fro in a shiny old-fashioned chair, by the fireside.  The carved oak clock-case in the corner was as bright as a mirror; and the solemn, authoritative ticking of the ancient time-marker was the loudest sound in the house.  But the softened roar of the stream outside filled all the place, steeping the senses in a drowsy spell.  At the end of a long table under the front window, sat Nanny’s granddaughter, a rosy, round-faced lass, about twelve years old.  She was turning over the pictures in a well-thumbed copy of “Culpepper’s Herbal.”  She smiled, and shut the book, but seemed unable to speak; as if the poppied enchantment that wrapt the spot had subdued her young spirit to a silence which she could not break.  I do not wonder that old superstitions linger in such nooks as that.  Life there is like bathing in dreams.  But I saw that they had heard me coming; and when I stopt in the doorway, the old woman broke the charm by saying, “Nay sure!  What; han yo getten thus far?  Come in, pray yo.”

“Well, Nanny,” said I; “where’s th’ owd chap?”

“Eh,” replied the old woman; “it’s noan time for him yet.  But I see,” continued she, looking up at the clock, “it’s gettin’ further on than I thought.  He’ll be here in abeawt three-quarters of an hour—­that is, if he doesn’t co’, an’ I hope he’ll not, to neet.  I’ll put th’ kettle on.  Jenny, my lass, bring him a tot o’ ale.”

I sat down by the side of a small round table, with a thick plane-tree top, scoured as white as a clean shirt; and Jenny brought me an old-fashioned blue-and-white mug, full of homebrewed.

“Toast a bit o’ hard brade,” said Nanny, “an’ put it into’t.”