TO one who had no love for them the Yorkshire moors could hardly have been less attractive than on this bleak, damp afternoon in early November, when the air was moist though no rain had fallen, and a mist that was too thin to hide more than the smaller details of the landscape made the distant hills a grey shadow against the lighter grey of the sky. There was snow on the mountains, but only on their crowns; only there, and in the deeper fissures that faced north and so paid no toll to the sun. The nearer mountains were almost black, like the moor that stretched its weary length to the sky-line; like the dry walls, that divided the lower slopes of the moor into curiously-shaped allotments.…
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