'
The subject of their conversation came out of the rocky cleft in the
hills as Mary spoke. She saw his hat appearing out of the gorge, and
then the man himself emerged, a tall well-built figure, clad in brown
tweed, coming towards them, with sketch-book and colour-box in his
pocket. He had been making what he called memoranda of the waterfall, a
stone or two here, a cluster of ferns there, or a tree torn up by the
roots, and yet green and living, hanging across the torrent, a rude
natural bridge.
This round by the Langdale Pikes and Dungeon Ghyll was one of their best
days; or, at least, Molly and her brother thought so; for to those two
the presence of Lesbia and her chaperon was always a restraint.
Mary could walk twice as far as her elder sister, and revelled in
hill-side paths and all manner of rough places. They ordered their
luncheon at the inn below the waterfall, and had it carried up on to the
furzy slope in front of Wetherlam, where they could eat and drink and be
merry to the music of the force as it came down from the hills behind
them, while the lights and shadows came and went upon yonder rugged
brow, now gray in the shadow, now ruddy in the sunshine.
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