"Nay, but I don't look at it i' that way. I'm no preacher, but there's One above 'at knows better than us, and I wouldn't like to think 'at t' Old Enemy 'ad ought to do wi' it. I've always been one to work wi' my hands, and book-learning hasn't been o' much account to me, but there's _one_ Book, miss, 'at I have read in, and it says, 'O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? Thanks be to God which giveth _us_ the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.'" I sat with my head in my hands for a long time after Farmer Brown had left, and when at length I raised my eyes the shadows had left the moor, and I saw that the sun would set in a clear sky. CHAPTER VI OVER THE MOOR TO ROMANTON We have had our promised holiday, Mother Hubbard and I, and a right royal one. On those rare occasions when work may be laid aside and hard-earned coin expended upon the gratification of the senses, our younger neighbours turn their steps to Airlee or Broadbeck, and seek the excitements of the picture palace or the music-hall; their elders are seldom drawn from the village unless to the solemn festivities of a "burying." We spent our day in the great alfresco palace of Nature, amid pictures of God's painting, and returned at night, tired in body, but with heart and soul and brain refreshed by unseen dews of heaven's own distilling. Fortunately we have had a spell of fine, dry weather, with occasional strong winds--at least, they were strong to me, but the folk about here dismiss them contemptuously as "a bit of a blow." Had the weather been wet Mother Hubbard's cherished desire to "take me across the moor" to Romanton would have had to be postponed indefinitely. We were to drive as far as "Uncle Ned's" in Mr. Higgins' market cart, Mr. Higgins having volunteered to "give us a lift," as it was "nowt out of his way." We started early, before the morning mists had forsaken the valleys, and whilst night's kindly tears still sparkled on the face of the meadows. It was good to lean back, my hand in Mother Hubbard's and my feet resting on the baskets in the bottom of the cart, and drink in sight and sound and crisp morning air. What a peaceful world it was! I thought for a moment of the mad rush of petrol-driven buses along Holtorn, and the surging tide of sombre humanity which filled the footpaths there. This had been the familiar moving picture of my morning experience for more years than I care to remember, and now--this. Beyond, the meadows and the shawl of mist in the valley, a long stretch of gold and golden-brown where gorse and bracken company together, the one in its vigorous and glowing prime, the other in the ruddy evening of its days, but not a whit less resplendent.