Grasmere they came upon an odd cavalcade. In front walked an elderly
lady, with a huge open bag slung round her, in which she carried an
amazing load of the sphagnum moss that English and Scotch women were
gathering at that moment all over the English and Scotch mountains for
the surgical purposes of the war. Behind her came a pony, with a boy.
The pony was laden with the same moss, so was the boy. The lady's face
was purple with exertion, and in her best days she could never have been
other than plain; her figure was shapeless. She stopped the pony as she
neared the Sarratts, and addressed them--panting.

'I beg your pardon!--but have you by chance seen another lady carrying
a bag like mine? I brought a friend with me to help gather this
stuff--but we seem to have missed each other on the top of Silver
How--and I can't imagine what's happened to her.'

The voice was exceedingly musical and refined--but there was a touch of
power in it--a curious note of authority. She stood, recovering breath
and looking at the young people with clear and penetrating eyes,
suddenly observant.

The Sarratts could only say that they had not come across any other
moss-gatherer on the road.

The strange lady sighed--but with a half humorous, half philosophical
lifting of the eyebrows.

'It was very stupid of me to miss her--but you really can't come to
grief on these fells in broad daylight. However, if you do meet her--a
lady with a sailor hat, and a blue jersey--will you tell her that I've
gone on to Ambleside?'