Krindlesyke is a remote shepherd’s cottage on the Northumbrian fells, at least three miles from any other habitation. It consists of two rooms, a but and a ben. Ezra Barrasford, an old herd, blind and decrepit, sits in an armchair in the but, or living-room, near the open door, on a mild afternoon in April. Eliza Barrasford, his wife, is busy, making griddle-cakes over the peat fire.
Eliza (glancing at the wag-at-the-wa’):
It’s hard on three o’clock, and they’ll be home
Before so very long now.
Ezra:
Eh, what’s that?
Eliza:
You’re growing duller every day. I said
They’d soon be home now.
Ezra:
They? And who be they?
Eliza: