stone from the moor as a matter of course. The walls were lined
inside and fenced outside with wood, the gift of Mr. Knifton's
father to my father. This double covering of cracks and crevices,
which would have been superfluous in a sheltered position, was
absolutely necessary, in our exposed situation, to keep out the
cold winds which, excepting just the summer months, swept over us
continually all the year round. The outside boards, covering our
roughly-built stone walls, my father protected against the wet
with pitch and tar. This gave to our little abode a curiously
dark, dingy look, especially when it was seen from a distance;
and so it had come to be called in the neighborhood, even before
I was born, The Black Cottage.

I have now related the preliminary particulars which it is
desirable that you should know, and may proceed at once to the
pleasanter task of telling you my story.

One cloudy autumn day, when I was rather more than eighteen years
old, a herdsman walked over from Moor Farm with a letter which
had been left there for my father. It came from a builder living
at our county town, half a day's journey off, and it invited my
father to come to him and give his judgment about an estimate for
some stonework on a very large scale. My father's expenses for
loss of time were to be paid, and he was to have his share of
employment afterwards in preparing the stone. He was only too
glad, therefore, to obey the directions which the letter
contained, and to prepare at once for his long walk to the county
town.

Considering the time at which he received the letter, and the