The walls declined in height, sloped farther back. The path grew
broader; the water no longer fell roaring, but ran sedately between
pebbled beaches. The scene grew wider, the mouth of the glen was
reached. He came out into a sunset world of dale and moor and
mountain-heads afar. There were fields of grain, and blue waving
feathers from chimneys of cottage and farm-house. In the distance
showed a village, one street climbing a hill, and atop a church with a
spire piercing the clear east. The stream widened, flowing thin over a
pebbly bed. The sun was not yet down. It painted a glory in the west
and set lanes and streets of gold over the hills and made the little
river like Pactolus. Strickland approached a farm-house, prosperous
and venerable, mended and neat. Thatched, long, white, and low, behind
it barns and outbuildings, it stood tree-guarded, amid fields of young
corn. Beyond it swelled a long moorside; in front slipped the still
stream.
There were stepping-stones across the stream. Two young girls, coming
toward the house, had set foot upon these. Strickland, halting in the
shadow of hazels and young aspens, watched them as they crossed. Their
step was free and light; they came with a kind of hardy grace,
elastic, poised, and very young, homeward from some visit on this
holiday. The tutor knew them to be Elspeth and Gilian Barrow,
granddaughters of Jarvis Barrow of White Farm.
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