e valley running up the eastern side of Blencathra on the
right, he reined up his horse to look for a moment at the sombre glow
which held the western heaven; amid which the fells of Thirlmere and
Derwentwater stood superbly ranged in threatening blacks and purples. To
the east and over the waste of Flitterdale, that great flat "moss" in
which the mountains die away, there was the prophecy of moonrise; a
pearly radiance in the air, a peculiar whiteness in the mists that had
gathered along the river, a silver message in the sky. But the wind was
rising, and the westerly clouds rushing up. The top of Blencathra was
already hidden; it might be a wild night.

Only one luminous point was to be seen, at first, in all the wide and
splendid landscape. It shone from Threlfall Tower, a dark and
indistinguishable mass amid its hanging woods.

"Old Melrose--counting out his money!"

But as the scornful fancy crossed his mind, a few other dim and scattered
lights began to prick the gloom of the fast-darkening valley. That
twinkle far away, in the direction of St. John's Vale, might it not be
the light of Green Cottage--of Lydia's lamp?

He sat his horse, motionless, consumed with longing and grief. Yet, hard
exercise in the open air, always seemed to bring him a kind of physical
comfort. "It _was_ a jolly _run_!" he thought, yet half ashamed. His
young blood was in love with life, through all heartache.

Suddenly, a whirring sound from the road on his right, and the flash of
moving lamps. He saw that a small motor was approaching, and his mare
began to fidget.

"Gently, old girl!"

The motor approached and slowed at the corner.

"Hallo Undershaw! is that you?"

The motor stopped and Undershaw jumped out, and turned off his engine.
Tatham's horse was pirouetting.

"All right," said Undershaw; "I'll walk by you a bit. Turn her up your
road."

The beautiful mare quieted down, and presently the two were in close
talk, while the motor left to itself blazed on the lonely moorland road.

Undershaw was describing a visit he had paid that morning to old Brand,
the bailiff, who was now quietly and uncomplainingly losing hold on life.

"He may go any time--perhaps to-night. The elder son's departure has
finished him. I told the lad that if he cared to stay till his father's
death, you would see that he got work meanwhile on the estate; but he was
wild to go--not a scrap of filial affection that I could make out!--and
the poor o