“I kenned it when I saw ye come in, bairn; an’ now here’s a makkin’ o’ butter settled an’ spoiled. Nay, nay; ye cam’ to gi’e me naught; ye cam’ to greet o’ this bosom o’ mine, if I naughbut had one. Well, greet, bairn.--Thou fool!” she whispered, as Bessie laid her cheek, sobbing, on her flat breast, “up-saddle to-neet, an’ off wi’ him! De’il tak’ me, he lo’es thee; up-saddle an’ off! Rebecca wadna mell on ye; ’tis for the poor fowk she sweeps--th’ poor fowk that bides at home an’ pays under th’ Pike Act for th’ roads that th’ rich gads about on. Has--has he said he lo’es ye?” “Ay, a thousand times!” Harriet closed her eyes for a moment. “Then, up an’ off, wer’t i’ thy sark! Harry wad never ha’ had me, e’en if I’d ha’ had him; I’m naughbut an owd shoe to fling at others’ weddings; I’m ... up an’ off, to-neet, Bessie; ’tis odds a blacksmith can weld as strong a hoop as a parson!” * * * * * The hot June night had fallen two hours back, and the full moon bathed a dozen dales in a soft brilliance. The hills swam in mysterious shadows, and not a breath stirred the tall field-flowers in the meadows. Now and then the cry of a nightjar was heard or that of a corn-crake; and now and then a tree would seem to sigh gently of itself in the still night. The road, of a silver-grey, dipped and wound and disappeared, reappearing a mile or two ahead where it crept over the shoulder of some moonlit moss. The young man drove the quick-trotting mare in the trap with his right hand, and his left held the girl. Her face was heavy with drowsiness. From time to time she glanced at the trees and fields and shapes of hill and dale in the dreamy moonlight; and as they passed under the dark hawthorn hedges she murmured: “Th’ flowers looks like spirits.... How far are we now, love?” “Yon’s Newton Moss, an’ ower it Lang Preston. We’se be at Litton Pike i’ an hour, an’ Horton by day-leet. We’ll put up i’ Sedbergh till to-morn th’ neet.--What is’t, love?” She drew closer to him. “I tell’d Harriet I wadna be feared, but Rebecca dresses i’ women’s clothes, an’ blacks her face, an’ burns yetts an’ toll-houses.--Hark! Dost hear naught at th’ back o’ us?” “Again, my precious! Nay, there’s naught; an’ I doubt Rebecca wadna sweep as far as Litton. True, she might; she’s busy these nights; but ’tis time enow to meet trouble when it meets ye. Sitha; thou can see into Lancashire; yon’s Pendle.” The girl took a sharp breath at the sight of the great valley on the left flooded with moonlight, and at the dim mountain rising fifteen miles away; then she pressed close to Harry and said: “I’se gan to sleep awhile; I can scarce keep my een oppen.” “Then sleep, sweetheart.” He kissed her, and she slept almost immediately. Slowly the moon touched the summit of her arc and began to decline; the hour of midnight came faintly over the hills from some distant church-tower; and the mare sped tirelessly along the road towards Litton Turnpike.