His “lad,” with frank confidence in her power of accommodation to somewhat unusual methods of progression, piloted her across the river by way of a rough bridge of stepping stones, apparently half natural, half artificial, and then led her by many a varied and devious track, through a succession of brambly coppices, and over many stiles of many patterns, tantalizing enough to a town-bred woman. She enjoyed it, however, and was proud of her newly-discovered powers, as she surmounted one unusual impediment after another, and was as quick about it as the long-legged country lad who guided her. Then they crossed a couple of upland pastures where the great, mild-eyed cows were grazing, and half-turning their heads to look at her and Billy Gale, who left her no time to be afraid of them, and at last the slender smoke spirals from the chimneys of a little homestead rose in sight. “The Heather Bell” was an old-fashioned coaching inn on the outskirts of the great park of Rokeby, and opposite one of its gates. The enormous beech trees leaned over the high Park wall and shadowed the inn that was only separated from it by the width of the road, and whose windows were darkened at noonday by their shade. The inn itself was a large, straggling building, with a low-pitched, tiled roof covered with houseleek. A bushy, garish-coloured garden on the south side, full of flowers, reached to where the fields ended. A woman was standing under the rose-hung porch, shading her eyes with her hand. “Yon’s the Mistress!” said Billy Gale, suddenly, “and she owes me a skelping, so I think I’ll just mak’ myself skarse!” He bolted, and just in time, for the landlady came striding up the garden path with obviously less zeal for the welcoming of the guest than for Billy Gale’s discomfiture. “Little, idle good-for-nought!” exclaimed she, shaking her fist in the direction of his recalcitrant back. “Is this the proper way for to bring fowk in? What’s the front entrance for? Good morning, Mem. Coom in this way, since ye are here!” Mrs. Elles asked for a bedroom, and was told that she could have one. “It’s a bit smarl, but ye’re no very big yersel’,” said the landlady, tenderly patronizing her already. People always did. “Coom, an’ I’se show ye!... Ye’ll be a penter, too, will ye?” she enquired, on the way upstairs. “Lord love ye, there’s heaps on ’em cooms here! It’s a fine place for such as them! There’s the Joonction--the Greta and the Tees, ye know, and the Dairy Bridge and Mortham Tower, they’re all bonnie--ye’se find plenty for to ockipy ye here. We’ve got a grand artiss here now.... That’s his room, see ye, next yours--ye’ll mebbies have seen his pectewers in Lunnon, Mem?” “Miss,” corrected Mrs. Elles.