It was Sunday morning, and through the dense atmosphere that preceded
rain came the sound of the bells of the chapel on the Raise, which
rang for morning service.

"What's come over little Liza?" said a young dalesman, who, in the
solemnity of Sunday apparel, was wending his way thither, as the
little woman flew past him, "tearing," as he said, "like a crazy
thing."

"Some barn to be christened afore the service, Liza?" called another
young dalesman after her, with the memory of the girl's enjoyment of a
similar ceremony not long before.

Liza heeded neither the questions nor the banter. Her destination was
certainly not the church, but she ran with greater speed in that
direction than the love of the Reverend Nicholas's ministrations had
yet prompted her to compass.

The village was reached at length, and her father's house was near at
hand; but the girl ran on, without stopping to exchange a word with
her sententious parent, who stood in the porch, pipe in hand, and clad
in those "Cheppel Sunday" garments with which, we fear, the sanctuary
was rarely graced.

"Why, theer's Liza," said Matthew, turning his head into the house to
speak to his wife, who sat within; "flying ower the road like a mad
greyhound."

Mrs. Branthwaite had been peeling apples towards the family's one