“She was by no means a common character. Left a widow many years ago, with a young family, by great industry and exertion she brought them up and settled them in the world in useful and respectable callings. In the sweet and quiet vale of Duddon, about a quarter of a mile below the bridge which unites Seathwaite and Ulpha, at an angular bend of the river, is a deep hole called the ‘Smithy Dub.’ About a stone-throw from this, on the Cumberland side of the river, behind one of those detached rocks, so characteristic of Duddon dale, stands a neat and roomy cottage and a garden, well furnished with bee-hives and flowers. Here she kept a small shop for the sale of groceries and drapers’ ware, and in due time her eldest son was fixed in the new smithy, by the river side. With a manner and outside somewhat plain and countryfied, she had as kind a heart as ever beat in the human bosom. She appeared almost to keep open house, and gave away, I should think, more bread and cheese and home-brewed, than is sold in some public-houses. If you called about hay-time, the well white-washed house, the fire-place, and all was beautiful to behold: and in the large grate was an immense thick sod of purple heather, in full blossom, the prettiest chimney ornament I ever saw. I have occasionally boarded in that cottage for a week at a time, and never saw any one applying for relief go away empty-handed. Few indeed, in a contracted sphere, have been so generally respected; and long will it be, ere that pleasant valley loses an inhabitant so beloved and regretted by rich and poor, as was Mary Hird.” [Sidenote: A SAD STORY.] I have said that the end of Mary Hird was melancholy, and it may not be improper, trivial and slight though these lucubrations be, to relate the circumstances attending it here. [Sidenote: THE FELLS IN WINTER]