I felt that the good lady’s appearance was a distinct indication that Fate had decided I must have my tea there. Nevertheless, there were signs that she was bound on some important errand; instead of the ordinary sun-bonnet or battered hat that is the usual weekday headgear among our hills, she had donned a carefully-brushed though somewhat rusty black bonnet, and a black beaded mantle of unquestionable antiquity, both worn with the air of her Sunday best.
“Good evening,” I began. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but I wonder if you can tell me where——”
“Th’ chapel?” replied the woman before I could finish my sentence. “Why, of course you can’t find ’un. But you jes’ come ’long wi’ me. I’m going there meself, an’ though we’m a bit late, it don’t matter; my man’ll be keeping a seat fur me, and ther’ll be room, sure ’nough, for ’ee to squeeze in too. I do al’ays tell ’un our chapel didn’t oughter belong where ’tis. No place o’ worship was ever more hid out o’ road than ourn. Yet my man do say ’tis clear ’nough to see ’un if you’m comin’ ’long the lower road; for there ’tis all to once. But as I say to him, the folk don’t all a-come down ’long the lower road; an’ if you come up ’long, why, there’s no chapel to be seen, and then where’m you to? What I do say is, the way o’ salvation oughter be so plain that th’ wayfarin’ man, though a fool, can’t lose un. An’ now here be you to prove me very words!”
The good soul was all this time trotting energetically along what I concluded could not be the lower road, since no chapel was in view. I just followed, wondering what would happen next! Meanwhile my companion talked, with scarcely comma-pause for breath.
“But I’m glad I happen to be late, or you might ha’ been wanderin’ around till you’re all mizzy-mazed. Soon as I saw you comin’ up ’long, I said to father—I was jes’ settlin’ ’im comfor’ble for th’ night—‘Father,’ I said, ‘here’s a lady a-lookin’ fur the chapel, sure ’nough. I shuden wonder a bit but what she’s come to speak at th’ meeting. Like as not she’s a friend of the minister, an’ ’pears she’s lost.’ I suppose you belong to London, ma’am?” This with a glance all over me to make sure there was no local hall-mark.
“My home is in London,” I replied, “but just at present I’m staying at Woodacres.”
“You’ve walked all the way from Woodacres?” she exclaimed.
“Yes; and I’m terribly hungry,” I said, hurriedly seizing my chance.
At this the kind hospitable soul was most concerned, and insisted on our turning into a relative’s house which we were passing at the moment. The door stood open, though the place seemed to be deserted.