Lancashire yeoman, and Stephen Fountain had an inbred liking for the
fells, the farmhouses, and even the rain of his native district. Before
descending to the sea, he and his child had spent a couple of days with
his cousin by marriage, James Mason, in the lonely stone house among the
hills, which had belonged to the family since the Revolution. He left it
gladly, however, for the farm life seemed to him much harder and more
squalid than he had remembered it to be, and he disliked James Mason's
wife. As he and Laura walked down the long, rough track connecting the
farm with the main road on the day of their departure, Stephen Fountain
whistled so loud and merrily that the skipping child beside him looked at
him with astonishment.

It was his way no doubt of thanking Providence for the happy chance that
had sent his father to a small local government post at Newcastle, and
himself to a grammar school with openings on the University. Yet as a
rule he thought himself anything but a successful man. He held a
lectureship at Cambridge in an obscure scientific subject; and was in his
way both learned and diligent. But he had few pupils, and had never cared
to have them. They interfered with his own research, and he had the
passionate scorn for popularity which grows up naturally in those who
have no power with the crowd. His religious opinions, or rather the
manner in which he chose to express them, divided him from many good men.
He was poor, and he hated his poverty. A rather imprudent marriage had
turned out neither particularly well nor particularly ill. His wife had
some beauty, however, and there was hardly time for disillusion. She died
when Laura was still a tottering baby, and Stephen had missed her sorely
for a while. Since her death he had grown to be a very lonely man,
silently discontented with himself and sourly critical of his neighbours.
Yet all the same he thanked God that he was not his cousin James.