In this wise they passed under a grassy hillside set with trimmed elms, and came to Grange Mill and another portage; and below Grange to Bidford, where there is a bridge of many arches carrying the old Roman road called Icknield Street; and from the bridge and grey little town they struck into a long reach that ran straight into the dazzle of the sun--through flat meadows at first, and then, with a turn, under the steep of Marcleeve Hill, that here borders Avon to the south for miles. Here begin the spurs of the Cotswolds--scars of green and red marle dotted with old thorn trees or draped with ash and maple, or smothered with trails of the Traveller's Joy. Mr. Jessup, whose instructions had become less and less frequent, and indeed were by this time patently superfluous, so quick the boy showed himself to anticipate the slightest warning, hereabouts engaged Tilda in converse. "He's a wonder, this child! I don't know where he comes from, or you, or how far you 're willing I should take you. In fact, there's an unholy flavour of kidnapping about this whole adventure. But I guess, if I wanted to return you, there are no railways hereabouts. We must strike the first depot we come to, and I'll frank you back, with apologies to your parents." "We got none," Tilda assured him. "For a steady-going country like England that's unusual, eh?" "There is a bit o' that about us," she conceded after a pause. "But you must belong to somebody?" he urged. "_He_ do . . . And that's what I got to find out. But it'll be all right when we get to 'Olmness." "Holmness?" queried Mr. Jessup. "Where's Holmness?" "It's an Island, in the Bristol Channel, w'ich is in the Free Library. We're goin' that way, ain't we?" "That's our direction, certainly; though we're a goodish way off." "No 'urry," said Tilda graciously. "We'll get there in time." Mr. Jessup smiled. "Thank you. I am delighted to help, of course. You'll find friends there--at Holmness?" She nodded. "Though, as far as that goes," she allowed yet more graciously, "I'm not conplainin'. We've made friends all the way yet--an' you're the latest." "I am honoured, though in a sense I hardly deserve it. You did--if I may say--rather take charge of me, you know. Not that I mind. This is my picnic, and I don't undertake to carry you farther than Tewkesbury. But is does occur to me that you owe me something on the trip." Tilda stiffened. "You can put us ashore where you like," said she; "but one d. is all I 'ave in my pocket, as may be 'twould a-been fairer t' a-told yer." The young man laughed outright and cheerfully as he headed the canoe for shore. They were close upon another weir and an ancient mill, whence, as they landed for another portage, clouds of fragrant flour-dust issued from the doorway, greeting their nostrils. "It's this way," he explained. "I'm here to sketch Shakespeare's Country, and the trouble with me is, I've a theory." "It's--it's not a bad one, I 'ope?"