Mrs. Melrose nodded, and Thyrza mounted a chair, and proceeded to put up
the curtains, turning an observant eye now and then on the thin-faced
lady sitting on the sofa, her long fingers clasped round her knees, and
her eyes--so large and staring as to be rather ugly than beautiful in
Thyrza's opinion--wandering absently round the room.

"It's a clashy day," Thyrza ventured at last.

"It's a dreadful day," said Mrs. Melrose sharply. "Does it always rain
like this?"

"Well, it _do_ rain," was Thyrza's cautious reply. "But there that's
better than snowin'--for t' shepherds."

Mrs. Melrose found the girl's voice pleasant, and could not deny that she
was pretty, in her rustic way.

"Has your father many sheep?"

"Aye, but they're all gone up to t' fells for t' winter. We had a grand
time here in September--at t' dippin'. Yo'd never ha' thowt there was so
mony folk about"--the girl went on, civilly, making talk.

"I never saw a single house, or a single light, on the drive from the
station last night," said Mrs. Melrose, in her fretful voice. "Where are
all the people?"

"Well, there ain't many!" laughed Thyrza. "It's a lonesome place this is.
But when it's a shearin', or a dippin', yo' unnerstand, farmin' folk'll
coom a long way to help yan anuther."