"He lives in yon hoil yonder, th' furthest fro' here. I'd best go wi' yo'--th' dogs 'ud welly worry y' if yo' went by yo'rsen." He got off the wall, his cur slunk at his heels, and we passed through the hamlet, our progress punctuated by a concert of howling, growling, baying, and barking from at least a hundred canine throats. We came to a single-storied house, like the rest, straw-thatched and rudely built, but I noticed, even by that illusive light, that it was longer and neater than others that we passed. A red light shone through a curtain drawn across the single window. "This is owd Mother Sykes's," my guide said, as I halted near the low door, and I slipped into his hand the coveted coin. I knocked. There was the sound as of muttering voices, and at last, long last, the portal was opened about half an inch, and I caught a glimpse of the old beldame I had seen at the Wakes. "What dost want?" she said in a harsh voice. "We're a' i' bed." "I want to see your Ephraim. It's Abe Holmes, tell him." At my name she opened the door grudgingly, and I entered the low room. It was bare to the smoke grimed rafters. The walls were whitewashed, or had been once upon a time. The floor was of hard earth, but strewn with rushes. There was a sullen fire in a grate in a yawning chimney place, so wide and deep that it afforded room within the chimney nook for a seat on either side of the fire. A great iron pot hung over the fire, suspended by a chain attached to a bar across the chimney, and if my nose did not deceive me a very savoury supper was in preparation. There was a round three-legged table, three chairs, and a long oak settle, on which Ephraim lay covered with sacking. The house had clearly two rooms, for I noticed a doorway, and I concluded rightly that this inner chamber was the sanctum of Mother Sykes and the maiden I yearned to see. I strained my ears for sound of voice or movement within the room, but heard none. The old dame seated herself on a stool before the fire, at times rising slowly and feebly and stirring the contents of the simmering pot with a thible. "Well, how's your foot, Ephraim?" I asked, cheerily as I could. "Granny theer has bathed it wi' some mak' o' herb--oo's gret on herbs is Granny an' it's done it more good nor all th' bottles in th' doctor's shop." "Dock-leaves an' spring watter, nowt no more," muttered the old dame. "Aw can put mi fooit to th' ground now, an' I'st be dancin' in a week, an' then it'll be 'Oh! be joyful' for yon Bradburys at Bill's o' Jack's."