d furze, the great bare rolling hills stretched out before us,
where the sheep were cropping the short sweet grass that grew between
the clumps of sedge and rushes, and the larks were singing loudly and
joyfully as they rose from their nests among the heather. Redburn
proved to be a quaint little old-world gray-stone village, set in a dip
amongst the moors, where it might receive some slight shelter from the
bitter north wind which blew from the hills in winter-time. We rattled
through its steep cobbled streets, making a brief pause at the church,
where some ancient stone coffins and carved choir stalls were to be
seen, and then on again, over the mountain-side, till we finally drew up
in the farmyard of Ingledew Grange, where Mrs. Thompson, the farmer's
wife, in a clean print dress and snowy apron, was waiting to receive us
with many smiles and words of welcome.

"I'm fain glad it's turned out a fine day for ye, that I am," she said.
"Ye'll be nigh clemmed after your drive, I take it, and more than ready
for your teas. I won't be above a few minutes in mashin' the pots, but
if ye care to take a turn round the garden whilst the cakes is a-gettin'
out of the oven ye can go where ye like."

We certainly agreed with her that the fresh moorland air had given a
keen edge to our appetites, and she hastened to finish her preparations,
while we prowled about the sweet old garden, where the little June roses
hung white over the rustic porch, and the peacocks on the lawn below
were spreading their glorious tails to the sunshine.

We had tea at long tables in a great farm-kitchen, the high roof of
which had black oak rafters arched like those of a church, while the
flagged floor was strewn with the finest white sand. Everything was as
neat and clean as constant scrubbing and scouring could make it; the oak
furniture shone with polishing, on a fine old dresser was spread out a
goodly array of blue willow-pattern china, while the brightest of copper
sauce-pans and pewter pots adorned the plain, whitewashed walls.

Millicent had certainly not overstated the quality of the cakes, nor the
freshness of the large brown eggs, nor the sweetness of the honey with
its delicious flavour of moorland heather, nor the dark barley bread,
nor the rich cream which Mrs. Marshall poured into our tea-cups with a
lavish hand. It was a real old-fashioned farmhouse tea, and we did
justice to it with such ample country appetites, that I think even Mrs.