Close to Grassington is Threshfield, where there are several old buildings, and the Grammar School in which Dr. Whitaker, the historian of Craven, received his early education. Then comes Linton, where in the old time every woman in the place "could spin flax from the distaff, or rock as it was called, and could card or spin wool from the piece." Linton, in those days, was a veritable Arcadia in the hills, for here there was neither poor's rate nor public-house, and almost every housekeeper had his "three acres and a cow," or what was tantamount thereto. There has been a change in these conditions, but Linton has not lost its look of prosperity and comfort. Close to the village are what have been called the Falls of the Wharfe--a rocky break in the river, forming a fine study for the artist. Below Linton lies Hebden, a village whose character and position are well expressed in its name--heb, high; and dene, a valley; and across the river at this point lies Thorpe. At Thorpe we are on the road leading to Rylstone, the seat of the Nortons, who risked and lost so much in the "Rising of the North," 1569-- "Thee, Norton, wi' thine eight good sonnes, They doomed to die; alas! for ruth. Thy revered lockes thee could not save, Nor them their fair and blooming youth." The ballad is an exaggeration, two only of the sons having suffered on the scaffold. The property, however, was cut off, and the "sequestered hall" mentioned in the "White Doe" fell into ruins. The name of the family clings to the district, and is perpetuated in what remains of the Norton Tower. "It fronts all quarters, and looks round, O'er path and road, and plain and dell, Dark moor, and gleaming pool and stream, Upon a prospect without bound." [Illustration: ILKLEY BRIDGE.] The "White Doe" was the pet of "the exalted Emily, maid of the blasted family." It was presented to her by her brother, Francis Norton, of Rylstone. Francis was one of those who perished in the rising of the North. He was buried in Bolton Abbey, and, according to the legend, the sister was a frequent visitor to his grave-- "But most to Bolton's sacred pile, On favouring nights she longed to go; There ranged through cloister, court, and aisle, Attended by the soft-paced doe. Nor did she fear in the soft moonshine To look upon St. Mary's shrine, Nor on the lonely turf that showed Where Francis slept in his last abode."