This was “‘The White Cow,” an old-fashioned inn, in a dip of the moor, where the ground began to roll in hills and hollows toward the distant mountains.
The house fronted east, and, as it lay basking in the late afternoon summer sun, was very picturesque. Its steep, gable roof was of red tiles, with tall, twisted chimneys, and projecting dormer windows; its walls were of some dark, gray stone, with broad windows and doors, and a great archway leading into the stable yard. A staff, with a swinging sign, stood before the door.
The declining sun threw the shadow of the house in front of it; and in this shade a pair of country laborers sat on a bench, with a table before them. They were smoking short pipes and drinking beer, which stood in pewter pots on the board.
This was the only sign of life and business about the still place.
As the cart drew up Mr. Force got out of it and helped his daughter to alight.
Le followed them.
“I think we will go in the house and rest a while, and see if we can get a decent cup of tea, my dear. We have had nothing since we left Lancaster, at three o’clock, and it is now half-past seven. You must be both tired and hungry,” said the squire, leading her in.
“‘I’m killed, sire,’”
responded Wynnette, misapplying a line from Browning, as she limped along on her father’s arm.
The man who had driven them from the railway station, and whom after developments proved to be waiter, hostler, groom and bootblack rolled into one for the guests of the White Cow, left his horse and cart standing and ran before Mr. Force to show the travelers into the house.