, as more than
one buxom wench in his parish had proved; and in all respects he was an
anachronism, the like of which is rare now among the fells and dales,
though at one time it was the normal type for the clergy of the remoter
North Country districts.

This old sinner--Priest Wilson as he was called--and Miss Gryce of Windy
Brow represented the wealth and intellect of a place which was at the
back of everything, out of the highway of life and untouched by the
progress of history or science. And the one was not very much superior
to the other save in moral cleanliness; which, however, counts for
something.

If North Aston had said with a sniff that Mr. Gryce was not
thoroughbred, what would have been its verdict on Sister Keziah? He at
least had rubbed off some of the native fell-side mould by rolling about
foreign parts, gathering experience if not moss, and becoming rich in
knowledge if not in guineas; but Keziah, who had spent the last twenty
years of her life in close attendance on a paralytic old mother, had
stiffened as she stood, and the local mould encrusting her was very
thick. Nevertheless, she too had a good heart if a rough hand, and,
though eccentric almost to insanity, as one so often finds with people
living out of the line and influence of public opinion, yet was as sound
at the core as she was rude and odd in the husk.

She was a small woman, lean, wrinkled, and with a curious mixture of
primness and slovenliness in her dress. She wore a false front, which
she called a topknot, the small, crimped, deep-brown mohair curls of
which were bound about her forehead with a bit of black velvet ribbon,
while gray hairs straggled from underneath to make the patent sham more
transparent still; and over her topknot she wore a rusty black cap that
enclosed the keen monkeyish face like a ruff. Her every-day gown was one
of coarse brown camlet, any number of years old, darned and patched till
it was like a Joseph's coat; and the Rob Roy tartan shawl which she
pinned across her bosom hid a state of dilapidation which even she did
not care should be seen. She wore a black stuff apron full of fine tones
from fruit-stains and fire-scorchings; and she took snuff.

She was reputed to be worth a mort of money, and she had saved a goodly
sum. It would have been more had she had the courage to invest it; but
she had a profound distrust of all financial speculations--had not
Emmanuel lost his share by playing at knucklebon