"It may account for something that's puzzled me a great deal--I must think it out.

But at present--is that the old woman's lamp ?" Avice led the way down to the hollow by a narrow path which took them into a little stone-walled enclosure where a single Scotch fir-tree stood sentinel over a typical moorland homestead of the smaller sort--a one-storied house of rough stone, the roof of which was secured from storm and tempest by great boulders slung on stout ropes, and having built on to it an equally rough shelter for some small stock of cows and sheep.

Out of a sheer habit of reflection on things newly seen, Brereton could not avoid wondering what life was like, lived in this solitude, and in such a perfect hermitage--but his speculations were cut short by the opening of the door set deep within the whitewashed porch.

An old woman, much bent by age, looked out upon him and Avice, holding a small lamp so that its light fell on their faces.
"Come your ways in, joy!" she said hospitably.

"I was expecting you'd come up tonight: I knew you'd want to have a word with me as soon as you could.