She did not altogether approve of Alan Thorn, but she was young and vigorous and enjoyed the sport.

Besides, she loved the high fells and now they looked majestic in the pale sunshine.
They were not all white; dark rocks with glittering veins edged the snowfield, and the scarred face of Force Crag ran down where the shoulder of the moor broke off four hundred feet below.

Where the sun did not strike, the snow was a curious delicate gray, and the bottom of the dale was colored an ethereal blue.

The pale-gray riband, winding in a graceful curve round the crag, marked the old green road that was sometimes used for bringing down dry fern, and Grace's face got thoughtful as she noted a row of men and horses some distance off.

She imagined they were Askew and his helpers.
In the meantime, Thorn studied her with artistic satisfaction.