"Just the same, just the same," he muttered; "when you're serious, a devil of passion, and when you're gay, a scoffer. But, God knows, lad, how I love you!" "I'm late, mother," said Griff, rushing into the Manor parlour at his usual hurricane speed. "Old Gabriel has been in a poor sort of way, lately, and I had to bully him. Where are we going to-day?" "Anywhere you like, Griff. Let us take the first path we come to, and go straight ahead. We won't bind ourselves to anything." Every day since he returned, the mother and Griff had had a long walk together. The man's zest for the moors was increasing apace; the more heather he got, the more he wanted, and the two of them found so much to talk about, that Kate Strangeways, the quarry-master's wife, went clean out of the old lady's head. Their cross-country tramp this morning, however, chanced to bring them in sight of Peewit House. "Were you ever in that house up there?" asked Mrs. Lomax. "Never; but I have often thought of exploring it. Who lives there? Some one must do, as there is smoke coming out of the chimney." "The worst-assorted couple you can imagine; a husband who ought to be horse-whipped every day of his life, and a wife who is, in my judgment, as fine a woman as I know anywhere. I want to drop in, by the way; Mrs. Strangeways has been ill for a long while, and I stop for a chat now and then. Will you come?" "Of course I will. I happen to be in search of a type of the genuine moor woman, too, and perhaps she will oblige me." "Griff, Griff! Always on the hunt for people to dip your brush into. I sometimes wish you were not quite so full of your work." "It's all right, mother," laughed the other, as he made her take advantage of his arm up the side of the brae; "I try to keep a tight hand on it, and only let it out when it _ought_ to be let out." But the laugh died on his lips: they were close to the bit of intake that guarded Peewit from the moor, and Kate Strangeways was leaning over the gate. Griff had dreamed of that pure-bred moor woman of his for many a year, and it seemed to him that he had found her at last in the flesh; she had the lissom strength of figure, the lips that were clear-cut for tenderness or scorn, the resolute hazel eyes, all just as he had imagined them. "Mother, she is beautiful!" he whispered. The old lady looked hard at him; then laughed, a dry, uncertain laugh. "Let her be just a type, Griff, dear; don't dwell too much on the flesh and blood." Once the first shock of surprise was over, Lomax was disposed to laugh at himself touching his half-second of emotion. He warmed to the thought of canvas and palette; he saw fine capabilities in the handling of this moor woman by a man who had the same peat salt in his fibres. "Well, mother, I have my chance at last," he said, as they came away. "That type is absolutely new in art; I can only pray that I may not spoil her in the drawing."