The local guide-book mentioned some prehistoric menhirs and a chambered barrow on the top of Red Ridge, a distant hill, so they had fixed that as their Mecca.
It was a considerable tramp, but the bracing air helped them on, and they sat down at last to eat their lunch by the side of the path that led to the summit.

The boys had wished to mount to the top without calling a halt, but the girls had struck, and insisted on a rest before the final climb.
"Pity Mother isn't here!" said Ingred, voicing the general feeling of the family, which always missed its central pivot.
"Yes, but it would have been too great a trapse for her, poor darling!" qualified Quenrede.

"I don't see how we could get her all this way unless we hired a pony." "Or borrowed an aeroplane.

One seems about as possible as the other," grunted Ingred.
"She shall have a photo of the stones at any rate," said Hereward, fingering his camera.

"Hurry up and finish, you girls, or the light will be gone!" "Well, we can't bolt our sandwiches at the rate you do! I wonder you don't choke!" The old gray stones stood in a circle on the top of the hill, from whence they had possibly seen four thousand summers and winters pass by.
Whether their original purpose was temple, astronomical observatory, or both is one of the riddles of antiquarian research, for neolithic man left no record of his doings beyond the weapons buried with him in his barrow.