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suppose himself with us now on the road
from Ashford-in-the-water to Tideswell.
We are at the Bull's Head, a little inn on
that road. There is nothing to create wonder,
or a suspicion of a hidden Arcadia in anything
you see, but another step forward, andthere!
There sinks a world of valleys at your feet.
To your left lies the delicious Monsal Dale.
Old Finn Hill lifts his grey head grandly
over it. Hobthrush's Castle stands bravely
forth in the hollow of his sidegrey, and
desolate, and mysterious. The sweet Wye
goes winding and sounding at his feet, amid
its narrow green meadows, green as the
emerald, and its dark glossy alders. Before
us stretches on, equally beautiful, Cressbrook
Dale; Little Edale shows its cottages from
amidst its trees; and as we advance, the
Mousselin-de-laine Mills stretch across the
mouth of Miller's Dale, and startle with
the aspect of so much life amid so much
solitude.

But our way is still onward. We resist
the attraction of Cressbrook village on its lofty
eminence, and plunge to the right, into
Wardlow Dale. Here we are buried deep in
woods, and yet behold still deeper the valley
descend below us. There is an Alpine feeling
upon us. We are carried once more, as in a
dream, into the Saxon Switzerland. Above
us stretch the boldest ranges of lofty
precipices, and deep amid the woods are heard
the voices of children. These come from a
few workmens' houses, couched at the foot of
a cliff that rises high and bright amid the
sun. That is Wardlow Cop; and there we
mean to halt for a moment. Forwards lies a
wild region of hills, and valleys, and lead-
mines, but forward goes no road, except such
as you can make yourself through the tangled
woods.

At the foot of Wardlow Cop, before this
little hamlet of Bellamy Wick was built, or
the glen was dignified with the name of Raven
Dale, there lived a miner who had no term
for his place of abode. He lived, he said,
under Wardlow-Cop, and that contented him.

His house was one of those little, solid,
grey limestone cottages, with grey flagstone
roofs, which abound in the Peak. It had
stood under that lofty precipice when the
woods which now so densely fill the valley
were but newly planted. There had been a
mine near it, which had no doubt been the
occasion of its erection in so solitary a place;
but that mine was now worked out, and
David Dunster, the miner, now worked at a
mine right over the hills in Miller's Dale.
He was seldom at home, except at night, and
on Sundays. His wife, besides keeping her
little house, and digging and weeding in the
strip of garden that lay on the steep slope
above the house, hemmed in with a stone
wall, also seamed stockings for a framework-
knitter in Ashford, whither she went once or
twice in the week.

They had three children, a boy and two
girls. The boy was about eight years of age;
the girls were about five and six. These
children were taught their lessons of spelling
and reading by the mother, amongst her
other multifarious tasks; for she was one of
those who are called regular plodders. She
was quiet, patient, and always doing, though
never in a bustle. She was not one of those
who acquire a character for vast industry by
doing everything in a mighty flurry, though
they contrive to find time for a tolerable deal
of gossip under the plea of resting a bit, and
which ' resting a bit ' they always terminate
by an exclamation that 'they must be off",
though, for they have a world of work to do.'
Betty Dunster, on the contrary, was looked on
as rather 'a slow coach.' If you remarked
that she was a hard-working woman, the
reply was, ' Well, she's always doing-- Betty's
work's never done; but then she does na
hurry hersen.' The fact was, Betty was a
thin, spare woman, of no very strong
constitution, but of an untiring spirit. Her
pleasure and rest were, when David came
home at night, to have his supper ready, and
to sit down opposite to him at the little round
table, and help him, giving a bit now and
then to the children, that came and stood
round, though they had had their suppers,
and were ready for bed as soon as they had
seen something of their ' dad.'

David Dunster was one of those remarkably
tall fellows that you see about these hills, who
seem of all things the very worst made men
to creep into the little mole holes on the hill
sides that they call lead-mines. But David
did manage to burrow under and through the
hard limestone rocks as well as any of them.
He was a hard-working man, though he liked
a sup of beer, as most Derbyshire men do,
and sometimes came home none of the
soberest. He was naturally of a very hasty
temper, and would fly into great rages; and
if he were put out by anything in the working
of the mines, or the conduct of his fellow-
workmen, he would stay away from home for
days, drinking at Tideswell, or the Bull's
Head at the top of Monsal Dale, or down at
the Miners' Arms at Ashford-in-the-water.

Betty Dunster bore all this patiently. She
looked on these things somewhat as matters
of course. At that time, and even now, how
few miners do not drink and ' rol a bit,' as
they call it. She was, therefore, tolerant, and
let the storms blow over, ready always to
persuade her husband to go home and sleep off
his drink and anger, but if he were too violent,
leaving him till another attempt might succeed
better. She was very fond of her children,
and not only taught them on week days their
lessons, and to help her to seam, but also took
them to the Methodist Chapel in ' Tidser,' as
they called Tideswell, whither, whenever she
could, she enticed David. David, too, in his
way, was fond of the children, especially of
the boy, who was called David after him. He
was quite wrapped up in the lad, to use the

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