“Then you know the story. At the Longstone Lighthouse out yonder she lived. You see the castle of Bamburgh, with its square tower, there. We noticed it all day yesterday while coming to Belford; first we took it for a lighthouse, then for a church, but finally a bright stream of sunshine fell on it from behind a cloud—on it, and on it alone, and suddenly we knew it. Well, in the churchyard there the lassie sleeps.”
“Indeed, sir!”
“Shall we drop a tear to her memory, my gentle Jehu?”
“Don’t think I could screw one out, sir.”
“Then drive on, John.”
I remember stopping at a queer old-fashioned Northumbrian inn for the midday halt. We just drew up at the other side of the road. It was a very lonely place. The inn, with its byres and stables, was perched on the top of a rocky hill, and men and horses had to climb like cats to get up to the doors.
By the way, my horses do climb in a wonderful way. Whenever any one now says to me, “There is a terrible hill a few miles on,” “Can a cat get up?” I inquire.
“Oh, yes, sir; a cat could go up,” is the answer.
“Then,” say I, “my horses will do it.”
At this inn was a very, very old man, and a very, very old woman, and their son Brad. Brad was waiter, ostler, everything, tall, slow, and canny-looking.