A head appeared at either window of the postchaise. Henrietta looked forward. Her lover looked back. The postchaise had nearly cleared the sands. Behind it the low line of Lancashire coast was fading from sight. Before it the long green hill of Cartmel had risen so high and drawn so near as to hide the Furness fells. On the left, seaward, a waste of sullen shallows and quaking sands still stretched to infinity—a thing to shudder at. But the savage head of Warton Crag, that for a full hour had guarded the travellers’ right, had given place to the gentler outlines of Armside Knot. The dreaded Lancashire Channels had been passed in safety, and the mounted guide, whose task it was to lead wayfa…
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