A fine cordial, good for many ills, she knew how to make from the berries, and had planned to brew a goodly quantity this year.

She went down the road a way, then over some bars, with her hands on the highest and a spring like a willow branch set free, across a pasture where some red cows were grazing, then over another set of bars, into a rough and shaggy land sloping gradually into a hill.

Here the high blackberries grew in great thorny thickets, and Madelon pressed among them warily and began picking.

She had not picked long--indeed the bottom of her basket was not covered--when she heard a rustle in the bushes behind her and looked over her shoulder hurriedly, and there was Lot Gordon.
Lot came forward from a cluster of young firs, parting the rank undergrowth with the careless wonted movement of one who steers his way among his own household goods.

Well used to all the wild disorder of out-doors was Lot Gordon, and could have picked his way of a dark night among the stones and bushes and trees of many a pasture and woodland.