"Here's the Forest Boundary," said Jacob, "and now we'll get to the Warren House yonder, rest a bit and start for home.'
"I always feel sorry to turn at the end of a great day," she answered, "and this is the greatest day, but one, that ever I have lived."
He kissed her.
"And that one was the day you asked me to marry you, Jacob."
"Don't I know it?"
The Warren House stood before them under a ragged sycamore. It was almost the loneliest inhabited dwelling in Devon, and its squat, white face peered out upon the wilderness from under a black, tar-pitched roof. The rabbit warrens spread on either hand and the dwelling lay in the protection of a tumulus that piled up to the northward.
"I love this forgotten place," declared Bullstone. "In some moods—not now, but once when I was younger and less content than now—I've thought it would be a very good place to live, beyond the fret and cark of life."
But Margery shivered.
"I'd have to be broke in mind and body and not wishful to live at all, before I'd live here," she said.
Indeed the spot was somewhat melancholy and calculated to chill a cheerful spirit. Death seemed to have made this place a home. Evidences of mortality stared round about. In one corner of the little yard was a heap of bones, and suspended from a low bough of the sycamore, there hung a flayed horse by a hook.