Just then "he" came into his front garden, so she hailed him, and passed me on. He told me where to pick up the line of the Wall again, and then he invited me in, to look at some old books etc. that he had, apologizing for "the litter" (which was invisible to me) because the housekeeper was away, and he and his brother were "doing for" themselves. He showed me an old Malacca cane, such as Joey Bagstock must have carried, with an ivory handle and a silver ring. It was inscribed: "David Stagg, 1701," and its pointed iron end looked as if David had been a heavy man, and had leant heavily upon it. Finally he left me in his parlour, happily absorbed in Hutchinson's _History of Cumberland_ (1794), and with his assurance that I should be "well oot o' the road there" for as long as I pleased. So if there is a Sherlock Holmes amongst my readers, when he notices hereafter the date 1794, he may possibly guess whence the facts that go with it were obtained. The butter was on the very point of coming out of the churn when I reappeared at the farm. "Come and look at it!" cried the guidwife; "it's just {202} beautiful." And she picked up a jug of water and poured it into the churn. But, alas! she had left the cork out, and the water was splashing all round us on the stone floor of the dairy. I flew into the kitchen, where I had noticed the cork, and returned in triumph with it, to be met with an approving, "Why, ye'll mak' a farmer's wife yet!" Then I had to "taste" the butter, to see if it was salt enough; and finally to taste it in a more satisfactory way, in the form of bread and butter with my tea. {203} CHAPTER XVIII GRINSDALE TO DRUMBURGH To follow the Wall to Kirkandrews, I had to cross the village street, and pass through a farm-yard gate beside a letter-box. This brought me out into meadows. Such a beautiful golden meadow was the first which came, with dark-grey guinea-fowls making a foil to the buttercups, and giant trees here and there. In the shade of one large chestnut-tree, a handsome lad was shearing sheep. I drew near to watch, and the clip, clip of his shears, together with the bleating of the waiting sheep, prevented his hearing me, so I waited till one sheep was quite finished before venturing to move or make a sound. Then I spoke, and he jumped. "How quiet they are while they are being shorn!" "Yes," said he, with a smile. "You never hear the sheep saying anything then; they say it all before. I think they are glad to get rid of it; it weighs about nine or ten pounds." As I looked at the snowy whiteness of the inside of the fleece, I thought how much we town-dwellers miss in the imagery of the Bible which must come home {204} with great force to a pastoral people, such as the Jews themselves were. "White as wool" and "As a sheep before her shearers is dumb."