rattles along in the broad sunshine through a deep valley, whose sides
slope steeply upward.

After walking about three miles into the heart of the wilderness,
another deep glen, shut in by the same sloping heather-covered hills,
suddenly opens to the right. There are no cliffs, no overhanging trees,
not even a bush, but all along the stream, "with its soft, dark babble,"
lie heaps and half-circles of stone nearly buried in the turf, and
almost hidden by the tall ferns and foxgloves. And this is what we went
out for to see! These are the ruins of the _Doones'_ huts. There could
not be anything more disappointing. Two hundred years have effectually
destroyed all distinctive traits, and they might have been sheep-folds
or pig-sties, or any other innocent agricultural erection for aught
that we could tell. "Not a single house stood there but was the home of
murder," says their historian. The suns and rains of two hundred and
odd years have effectually washed out their blood-stains, and there is
nothing left there but peace.

Some way beyond the ruins stands a small stone cottage of the most
modern order. We found it to be the abode of a shepherd, away with his
flock on the hills, but his wife, no shepherdess of the Dresden china
order, but a hearty and substantial dame, gave us a cordial welcome. She
was in a state of intense delight at our disappointment about the ruins,
and discussed the situation in that soft Somersetshire accent that gives
such breadth and jollity to the language. "E'll not vind it a beet loike
ta buik," she said, with her cheery laugh. "Buik's weel mad' up; it
houlds 'ee loike, and 'ee can't put it by, but there's nobbut three
pairts o't truth. Hunnerds cooms up here to se't," she added, with a
chuckle.