J. S. Fletcher

“ Perhaps, because we were both young, I made bold to smile at her—knowingly.
“You think I shall be—lost in the snow and found dead in the morning?” I suggested.
“That’s precisely what you will be if you try to reach Wooler to-night,” she answered, with some liveliness. “Such a thing’s impossible! even if you knew the way, and I think you don’t. Of course, you must stay here. My guardian, Mr. Parslewe, is out, but——”
“The master is not one for strangers, miss,” interrupted the old woman. ”

“ Parslewe, does he go in for sport?”
“Not much,” she replied. “Sometimes he goes fishing, and now and then he’ll carry a gun. But he usually becomes meditative over a stream, and is generally looking somewhere else if anything gets up in front of his gun, so his performances don’t amount to much.” ”

“ There, before me, a lamp held above her head, stood an elderly woman, a tall, gaunt, hard-featured woman, who first started with obvious surprise at seeing me, and then stared at me with equally apparent suspicion. ”

“ Parslewe says it was a sixteenth-century peel tower—a sort of castle, you know,” she answered. “There are a good many here and there, on each side of the Tweed. We stayed for some time at Berwick when we came to England, looking round for an old place. Then we found this, and settled down. It’s delightful in summer, and in winter it’s weird!”
“Has it a name?” I asked. “Because it’s not marked on my map.”
“Name?—Yes!” she answered. “It’s called Kelpieshaw—that’s Kelpie Strand, that lies outside it, between Langlee Crags and Hedgehope Hill. ”

“ The woman frowned. But—involuntarily—she opened the door wider. I saw then that she was standing in a square stone hall of very small dimensions, and that from her right hand stone steps, obviously set in a newel stair, gave access to the upper regions of this queer old place. And I saw more—I saw a pair of slim and shapely ankles, in smart stockings and shoes; the edge of a dainty skirt, and the projection of the stair out of all else.
“It’s a young man, miss, wants to know his way,” said the janitor. “He’s for Wooler, and I’ve told him——”
“For Wooler? In this snow? Impossible, Tibbie! ”

“ You are extremely kind to be so hospitable.”
“Nonsense!” she laughed. “You couldn’t turn a dog out on a night like this. I don’t know if my guardian will manage to get home—he and his old pony can do wonders, and they’ve sometimes got through when the drifts were two or three feet thick. But you’re all right—sit down.”
She pointed to a big arm-chair near the fire, and I obeyed her and dropped into it—to make a more leisurely inspection of my surroundings, and my hostess. The room was evidently a part of the square tower I had seen from without, and filled a complete story of it ”

“ I could make a good picture of it, with the hills as the background.”
“Do, do!” she exclaimed. “And I’ll make my guardian buy it from you; he often buys pictures. You might put me in it, with my gun and my dogs; I’ll show you the dogs in the morning—beauties!”
We got on very well together, chatting in this light-hearted fashion. The evening passed on, but Mr. Parslewe did not come. We had supper; still he did not come. And at ten o’clock my hostess pronounced a decision.
“He won’t come to-night, now,” she said. “And it’s my bed-time. Tibbie will take charge of you, Mr. ”