On such a time as this, and in the early Sabbath morning, might be seen a stalwart farmer strolling o’er the hills which command a view of the little but interesting village of Luddenden.

I do not think that the dreary look of decaying beauties had much effect upon him,—­the pale blue smoke that issued from his mouth, in measured time, seemed to afford him every consolation.  He evidently saw some one approaching in whom he was interested.  Having satisfied himself that he was not mistaken, he began talking aloud:—­

“Oi! that’s him sure enough; nah whativer can owd Tommy want laumering over thease hills at this time o’th’ morning?  He’s a queer chap, takkin him all i’ all; an’ still if ought should happen him aw doant know where they’d find his marrow; he’s been th’ same owd Tommy iver sin aw wor a lad, an’ aw’m noa chicken nah—­he said—­stroking a few grey hairs, which, like a tuft of frosted grass, adorned his ruddy cheeks.  Aw sud think he’s saved a bit o’ brass bi this time, for he wor allus a nipper; but he wor allus honest, an’ it isn’t ivery man yo meet i’th world ’at’s honest; but aw doant think Tommy ud wrang ony body aght o’th’ vally o’ that;”—­saying which, he snapped his finger and thumb together to denote its worthlessness.

A few minutes more and Tommy might be plainly seen slowly ascending the somewhat rugged road toward the spot where stood the farmer leaning against the wall awaiting him.  I could not better occupy the time that intervenes than endeavour to picture the approaching traveller.  His age I would not dare to guess, he might be 60, or he might be 90.  He was a short thick-set man, and rather bent, but evidently more from habit than from weight of years.  He wore a long blue coat which plainly spoke of years gone by, and bore in many places unmistakable evidence that Tommy was no friend to tailors; beneath this an old crimson plush waistcoat, that had long since done its duty, some drab knee-breeches, and a pair of dark grey stockings which hid their lower extremities in a pair of shoes about large enough to make two leather cradles; on his head a hat that scorned to shine, and in his hand he carried an oaken staff; his small grey eyes glistened with a spark of latent wit, whilst on his face was stamped in unequivocal characters some quaint originality.

“Gooid morning, Tommy,” said the farmer.

“Gooid morning Dick,” replied Tommy, “it’s a nice day ower th’ head but fearful heavy under th’ fooit.”

“You’re reight,” said Dick, “but where are yo trapesing to this morning?”

“Waw, aw’m gooin as far as Dick’s o’ Tom’s at th’ Durham, to get my tooa nails cut,” said Tommy.

“Well, yo’ll happen bait a bit and ha a wiff o’ bacca wi’ me, for its a long time sin aw saw yo afoor,” said Dick.

“Waw, aw dooant mind if aw have a rick or two, but aw munnot stop long, for it luks rayther owercussen up i’th’ element; but ha’s that lad o’ thine getting on sin he wed quiet Hannah lass?  Aw’ve wondered sometimes if he wod’nt rue his bargain,—­is shoo as fat as sho wor?”