The people were out at their daily toil on the hills, and only a few white-headed children were making dust pies by the churchyard gate, two or three women, with babies in their arms, gossiping at their cottage doors.
'Where's she off to, I wonder? That's Peter Palmer's girl, she is mighty proud, and never passes good-morning or the time of day, not she.'
'Pride must have a fall,' said another. 'Look at her in her fine red gown as if 'twere a Fair day.'
And then the women hushed their squalling babies with somewhat rough vehemence and turned to other subjects.
Bryda was a little doubtful of the nearest road to Rock House when she came to the place where four roads met.
The old sign-post had lost one of its arms, and the lettering on another was defaced. Bryda knew Rock House was several miles nearer Dundry than the town of Binegar, but she could not feel sure which of the four roads that looked so much alike was the right one.
As she stood hesitating, a young man, with a gun under his arm, leaped over the hedge into the road.
Flick growled as he approached, and Bryda, putting her hand through his collar, said,—
'Down, Flick.'
Then, addressing the young man, she said,—