The first sign of habitation was a thin spire which seemed to rise in mid distance before them.
“What is that?” inquired Mr. Force of the driver.
“Thet, maister, be the steeple of old Anglewood Church.”
“Are we so near the manor, then?”
“Naw, sir. It be better’n three mulls off yet. You would naw see it, only for the air is so clear the day.”
Wynnette craned her neck to look forward. But there was nothing to be seen but the thin spire, as if drawn with pen and ink from the dark blue heath to the deep blue sky.
As they went on, the spire became a steeple, and the steeple a tower, and the tower a church.
As yet nothing but the church—darkly outlined against the background of hills—was visible. They were now on the top of one of the rolling hills, and could see it clearly.
“Is that church in the village of Angleton or in the manor of Anglewood?” inquired Mr. Force of the driver.
“It be on t’ manor, maister. The village it be nearer t’ us, but being in t’ hollow you can’t see it yet.”