From a noble height they looked down upon Wastwater, sternest and blackest of the lakes, on the fields and copses of the valley head with its winding stream, and the rugged gorges which lie beyond in mountain shadow.
The descent was by a path which in winter becomes the bed of a torrent, steep and stony, zigzagging through a thick wood.

Here, and when they had reached the level road leading into the village, their talk was in the same natural, light-hearted strain as before they rested.

So at the inn where they dined, and during their drive homewards--by the dark lake with its woods and precipices, out into the country of green hills, and thence through Gosforth on the long road descending seaward.
Since their early departure scarcely a cloud had passed over the sun--a perfect day.
They alighted before reaching Seascale.

Barfoot discharged his debt to the driver--who went on to bait at the hotel--and walked with Rhoda for the last quarter of a mile.

This was his own idea; Rhoda made no remark, but approved his discretion.
'It is six o'clock,' said Everard, after a short silence.