eye was attracted to this small building by the pallid shine of
the wet slates that covered it. He turned aside, and, finding it
empty, stood under the pentroof for shelter.

While he stood, the boom of the serpent within and 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 utilised 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