Behind her came a pony, with a boy.
The pony was laden with the same moss, so was the boy.

The lady's face was purple with exertion, and in her best days she could never have been other than plain; her figure was shapeless.

She stopped the pony as she neared the Sarratts, and addressed them--panting.
'I beg your pardon!--but have you by chance seen another lady carrying a bag like mine?
I brought a friend with me to help gather this stuff--but we seem to have missed each other on the top of Silver How--and I can't imagine what's happened to her.' The voice was exceedingly musical and refined--but there was a touch of power in it--a curious note of authority.

She stood, recovering breath and looking at the young people with clear and penetrating eyes, suddenly observant.
The Sarratts could only say that they had not come across any other moss-gatherer on the road.
The strange lady sighed--but with a half humorous, half philosophical lifting of the eyebrows.
'It was very stupid of me to miss her--but you really can't come to grief on these fells in broad daylight.

However, if you do meet her--a lady with a sailor hat, and a blue jersey--will you tell her that I've gone on to Ambleside ?' Sarratt politely assured her that they would look out for her companion.
He had never yet seen a grey-haired Englishwoman, of that age, carry so heavy a load, and he liked both her pluck and her voice.