“Harp and carp, Thomas,” she says, “Harp and carp alang wi me. And if ye dare to kiss my lips, Sure of your bodie I will be.” “Betide me weal, betide me woe, That weird shall never daunton me.” Syne he has kissed her rosy lips, All underneath the Eildon Tree. THOMAS THE RHYMER. _To_ W. G. E. _and to my friends_ K. H. _and_ G. C. L. M. _I dedicate this book_ It is neither allegory nor fable but a Story to be read for its own sake. The proper names I have tried to spell simply. The _e_ in Carcë is long, like that in Phryne, the _o_ in Krothering short and the accent on that syllable: Corund is accented on the first syllable, Prezmyra on the second, Brandoch Daha on the first and fourth, Gorice on the last syllable, rhyming with thrice: Corinius rhymes with Flaminius, Galing with sailing, La Fireez with desire ease: _ch_ is always guttural, as in loch. _9th January 1922_ E. R. E. THE INDUCTION There was a man named Lessingham dwelt in an old low house in Wastdale, set in a gray old garden where yew-trees flourished that had seen Vikings in Copeland in their seedling time. Lily and rose and larkspur bloomed in the borders, and begonias with blossoms big as saucers, red and white and pink and lemon-colour, in the beds before the porch. Climbing roses, honeysuckle, clematis, and the scarlet flame-flower scrambled up the walls. Thick woods were on every side without the garden, with a gap north-eastward opening on the desolate lake and the great fells beyond it: Gable rearing his crag-bound head against the sky from behind the straight clean outline of the Screes. Cool long shadows stole across the tennis lawn. The air was golden. Doves murmured in the trees; two chaffinches played on the near post of the net; a little water-wagtail scurried along the path. A French window stood open to the garden, showing darkly a dining-room panelled with old oak, its Jacobean table bright with flowers and silver and cut glass and Wedgwood dishes heaped with fruit: greengages, peaches, and green muscat grapes. Lessingham lay back in a hammock-chair watching through the blue smoke of an after-dinner cigar the warm light on the Gloire de Dijon roses that clustered about the bedroom window overhead. He had her hand in his. This was their House. “Should we finish that chapter of Njal?” she said.