They both halted on the green brow of the common. They looked down on the deep valley robed in May raiment; on varied meads, some pearled with daisies, and some golden with king-cups. To-day all this young verdure smiled clear in sunlight; transparent emerald and amber gleams played over it. On Nunnwood--the sole remnant of antique British forest in a region whose lowlands were once all silvan chase, as its highlands were breast-deep heather--slept the shadow of a cloud; the distant hills were dappled, the horizon was shaded and tinted like mother-of-pearl; silvery blues, soft purples, evanescent greens and rose-shades, all melting into fleeces of white cloud, pure as azury snow, allured the eye as with a remote glimpse of heaven's foundations. The air blowing on the brow was fresh, and sweet, and bracing.
"Our England is a bonny island," said Shirley, "and Yorkshire is one of her bonniest nooks."
"You are a Yorkshire girl too?"
"I am--Yorkshire in blood and birth. Five generations of my race sleep under the aisles of Briarfield Church. I drew my first breath in the old black hall behind us."

They halted on the green brow of the common, and looked down on the deep valley; on meadows, some pearled with daisies, some golden with king-cups. On Nunnwood - the sole remnant of an ancient forest - slept the shadow of a cloud; the distant hills were dappled, the horizon tinted like mother-of-pearl; silvery blues, soft purples and rose-shades, all melting into fleeces of white cloud, like a remote glimpse of heaven's foundations.
"Our England is a bonny island," said Shirley, "and Yorkshire is one of her bonniest nooks."
"You are a Yorkshire girl too?"
"I am. Five generations of my race sleep under Briarfield Church."
