ded the watery
chasm, caused by the thick shade of trees overspreading from the
opposite bank. It was a spot that a painter might have chosen for "The
Kelpie's Home."

The cottage door was open; and I guessed by the silence inside that
old "Jone" had not reached home. His wife, Nanny, was a hale and
cheerful woman, with a fastidious love of cleanliness, and order, and
quietness, too, for she was more than seventy years of age. I found her
knitting, and slowly swaying her portly form to and fro in a shiny
old-fashioned chair, by the fireside. The carved oak clock-case in the
corner was as bright as a mirror; and the solemn, authoritative ticking
of the ancient time-marker was the loudest sound in the house. But the
softened roar of the stream outside filled all the place, steeping the
senses in a drowsy spell. At the end of a long table under the front
window, sat Nanny's granddaughter, a rosy, round-faced lass, about
twelve years old. She was turning over the pictures in a well-thumbed
copy of "Culpepper's Herbal." She smiled, and shut the book, but seemed
unable to speak; as if the poppied enchantment that wrapt the spot had
subdued her young spirit to a silence which she could not break. I do
not wonder that old superstitions linger in such nooks as that. Life
there is like bathing in dreams. But I saw that they had heard me
coming; and when I stopt in the doorway, the old woman broke the charm
by saying, "Nay sure! What; han yo getten thus far? Come in, pray yo."

"Well, Nanny," said I; "where's th' owd chap?"

"Eh," replied the old woman; "it's noan time for him yet. But I see,"
continued she, looking up at the clock, "it's gettin' further on than I
thought. He'll be here in abeawt three-quarters of an hour--that is, if
he doesn't co', an' I hope he'll not, to neet. I'll put th' kettle on.
Jenny, my lass, bring him a tot o' ale."

I sat down by the side of a small round table, with a thick plane-tree
top, scoured as white as a clean shirt; and Jenny brought me an
old-fashioned blue-and-white mug, full of homebrewed.

"Toast a bit o' hard brade," said Nanny, "an' put it into't."

I did so.

The old woman put the kettle on, and scaled the fire; and then,
settling herself in her chair again, she began to re-arrange her
knitting-needles. Seeing that I liked my sops, she said, "Reitch some
moor cake-brade. Jenny'll toast it for yo."

I thanked her, and reached down another piece; which Jenny held to the
fire on