Northumbrian counties.

"What sir?"

"Sir Hugh Creswell, if you please, Sir Bale."

"Ho!--mad Creswell?--O, the crazy parson. Well, tell Mrs. Julaper to let
him have some supper--and--and to let him have a bed in some suitable
place. That's what he wants. These mad fellows know what they are
about."

"No, Sir Bale Mardykes, that is not what he wants," said the loud wild
voice of the daft sir over the servant's shoulder. "Often has Mardykes
Hall given me share of its cheer and its shelter and the warmth of its
fire; and I bless the house that has been an inn to the wayfarer of the
Lord. But to-night I go up the lake to Pindar's Bield, three miles on;
and there I rest and refresh--not here."

"And why not _here_, Mr. Creswell?" asked the Baronet; for about this
crazy old man, who preached in the fields, and appeared and disappeared
so suddenly in the orbit of his wide and unknown perambulations of those
northern and border counties, there was that sort of superstitious
feeling which attaches to the mysterious and the good--an idea that it
was lucky to harbour and dangerous to offend him. No one knew whence he
came or whither he went. Once in a year, perhaps, he might appear at a
lonely farmstead door among the fells, salute the house, enter, and be
gone in the morning. His life was austere; his piety enthusiastic,
severe, and tinged with the craze which inspired among the rustic
population a sort of awe.