the lesser strains of the fiddler, reached the spot as an accompaniment
to the surging hiss of the flying rain on the sod, its louder beating on
the cabbage-leaves of the garden, on the eight or ten beehives just
discernible by the path, and its dripping from the eaves into a row of
buckets and pans that had been placed under the walls of the cottage. For
at Higher Crowstairs, as at all such elevated domiciles, the grand
difficulty of housekeeping was an insufficiency of water; and a casual
rainfall was utilized by turning out, as catchers, every utensil that the
house contained. Some queer stories might be told of the contrivances
for economy in suds and dish-waters that are absolutely necessitated in
upland habitations during the droughts of summer. But at this season
there were no such exigencies; a mere acceptance of what the skies
bestowed was sufficient for an abundant store.

At last the notes of the serpent ceased and the house was silent. This
cessation of activity aroused the solitary pedestrian from the reverie
into which he had lapsed, and, emerging from the shed, with an apparently
new intention, he walked up the path to the house-door. Arrived here,
his first act was to kneel down on a large stone beside the row of
vessels, and to drink a copious draught from one of them. Having
quenched his thirst he rose and lifted his hand to knock, but paused with
his eye upon the panel. Since the dark surface of the wood revealed
absolutely nothing, it was evident that he must be mentally looking
through the door, as if he wished to measure thereby all the
possibilities that a house of this sort might include, and how they might
bear upon the question of his entry.

In his indecision he turned and surveyed the scene around. Not a soul
was anywhere visible. The garden-path stretched downward from his feet,
gleaming like the track of a snail; the roof of the little well (mostly