"It is bitter cold, bairn," she had said for the third or fourth time,
"and I doubt thou wilt be more dead than alive when thy father sees
thee at Newcastle. But don't forget that pasty; 'tis good, for I made
it myself. And there's the sup of summat comforting in the little
bottle; don't forget that."

"Good-bye, aunt, and thank you over and over again," George called
from the top of the coach. "Don't stay any longer in the freezing
cold. I'm all right."

But the talkative and kindly old dame would not budge, and Blackett
could not help smiling quietly in his corner. "What a curious old
rustic!" he said to himself, "and she's the aunt, it appears." As for
George himself, he was thinking much the same thing. "A good soul," he
murmured to himself, "but, oh, so countrified!"

Fairburn's limbs were pretty stiff by the time the grand old cathedral
and the castle of Durham standing proudly on their cliff above the
river came in sight. There was an unwonted stir in the streets of the
picturesque little city. My lord the bishop with a very great train
was coming for the Christmas high services.

"Our bishop is a prince," explained the guard, who had had not a
little talk with George on the way. "There are squires and baronets
and lords in his train, and as for his servants and horses, why--" the
good fellow spread out his hands in his sheer inability to describe
the magnificence of the bishops of Durham.

"Yes," Fairburn made answer, "and I've heard or read that when a new