Nearly a thousand feet above the fertile valley of the Youle, stretched a waste of moorland.

Here all the trees were gnarled and dwarfed above the patches of rust-coloured bracken; save only the delicate silver birch, which swayed and yielded to the wind.
Great boulders were scattered among the thorn bushes, and over their rough and glistening breasts were flung velvet coverings of green moss and grey lichen.
On this October day, the heather yet sturdily bore a few last rosy blossoms, and the ripe blackberries shone like black diamonds on the straggling brambles.

Here and there a belated furze-bush erected its golden crown.
Over the dim purple of the distant hills, a brighter purple line proclaimed the sea.

Closer at hand, on a ridge exposed to every wind of heaven, sighed a little wood of stunted larch and dull blue pine, against a clear and brilliant sky.
Sarah was enthroned on a mossy stone, beneath the yellowing foliage of a sheltering beech.
Her glorious ruddy hair was uncovered, and a Tyrolese hat was hung on a neighbouring bramble, beside a little tweed coat.

She wore a loose white canvas shirt, and short tweed skirt; a brown leather belt, and brown leather boots.
Being less indifferent to creature-comforts than to the preservation of her complexion, Miss Sarah was paying great attention to the contents of a market-basket by her side.