“I have, and hope within a few days to occupy it.”
“Ah, but that is triste,” she cried. “And where is it, then, this house which you have built?”
“It is over yonder,” I answered. “See that stream which lies like a silver band upon the distant moor? It is the Gaster Beck, and it runs through Gaster Fell.”
She started, and turned upon me her great dark, questioning eyes with a look in which surprise, incredulity, and something akin to horror seemed to be struggling for mastery.
“And you will live on the Gaster Fell?” she cried.
“So I have planned. But what do you know of Gaster Fell, Miss Cameron?” I asked. “I had thought that you were a stranger in these parts.”
“Indeed, I have never been here before,” she answered. “But I have heard my brother talk of these Yorkshire moors; and, if I mistake not, I have heard him name this very one as the wildest and most savage of them all.”
“Very likely,” said I, carelessly. “It is indeed a dreary place.”
“Then why live there?” she cried, eagerly. “Consider the loneliness, the barrenness, the want of all comfort and of all aid, should aid be needed.”
“Aid! What aid should be needed on Gaster Fell?”