In the kirk-garth of High Fold, among the mouldering head-stones, there lies, half hidden by the matted grasses, a fallen pillar.

It is hewn out of native granite, polished to so fine a grain that even yet it looks like a piece of marble. But it has lain there for many years, and will continue to lie, unless some kindly soul, knowing its history, sets it again upon its pedestal, to defy the storms of that wild region.

The church is rarely used now, for the village has sunk into ruins. Among the roofless cottages the stonechats may be seen flitting in and out all through the long spring and summer days, and they build their nests in the whin-bushes that grow in the old house-places. The sheep come there to crop the grass, for it has a greener tinge, and tastes sweeter than that but a few steps away on the fellside; and a great grey mountain fox once made its home in a chimney. But the Brownriggs, the Yewdales, the Idles, the Flemings—those worthy families who had lived there for many grandfathers back, as they used to say, are all gone from the old homesteads, allured by that will-o'-the-wisp which shines so brightly and persistently in the streets of our great cities, and yet rarely brings the traveller to anything better than the peat-pots, and marsh mosses of Quaking Hag.

The change had come quickly, within two generations. It came with the power loom and the whirling of wheels, with the dying down of the old industries, and the introduction of the new, which screamed out, like a mad midwife, that they were bringing in the Golden Age.

Forty years ago, smoke could still be seen issuing from the chimneys of High Fold. The old folk left behind, used to meet at the well of a summer's morning, and gossip about the days gone by. At that time the pillar was still standing in the kirk-garth—a tall, finely-formed column resting upon a Greek pedestal, but broken off roughly across the top to show that it commemorated a life untimely ended. Travellers rarely came that way, but those who did would stop to read the words engraved upon it, and enquire further about Barbara Lynn, and ask who Peter and Lucy Fleming were, that had raised the monument to her memory.

Now moss, and the action of the weather, have partly obliterated the lettering, yet a careful hand and a sharp eye may still lay it bare. Kneeling on the grass beside it you can read this inscription:

"Barbara Lynn died with her great-grandmother at the fall of Mickle Crags in Boar Dale. Their bodies lie buried in the Great Barrow erected over them by Nature; their souls are free and immortal."

Then follow the date and their ages. Barbara was only twenty-six; her great-grandmother was one hundred years old. Below that, Peter had caused to be engraved these words:

Often the traveller heard enough of the story to fire his mind, and he would go some little way out of his path to visit the scene of the disaster, and meditate by the Great Barrow that covered the bodies of Annas and Barbara Lynn, and hid the old house of Greystones under thousands of tons of earth and rocks. No attempt has ever been made to clear it away, the landslip had been complete and overwhelming, and even the tale of treasure buried there roused no ephemeral hopes in the minds of covetous persons.

This part of the dale is greatly changed since Barbara's day. Above the landslip the beck has widened out into a small lake, from which it issues in a leaping cataract, that plunges down a hundred feet into a deep pool below. This waterfall, whose thunder can be heard in Cringel Forest, has since received the name of the Lynn's Force. The copse has disappeared, not a tree now grows in the dale, save the twisted hollies, which Barbara used to clip for winter fodder for the sheep. But, if you stand on the top of the Great Barrow, you can get a more extensive view of Cringel Forest than was possible in the old days. The rising sun no longer lights up the windows of Forest Hall; for it, too, has crumbled before the hand of time, and stands, now a gaunt ruin, open to the winds and rains. But the beech trees still spread a sweet shade over the cart road, though every winter their ranks are thinned by the storms.

Joel Hart came home to his old house shortly before his death. He had grown rich, and returned to leave his wealth to found an orphanage for fatherless children in his native land. He had never married and, in his will, gave instructions that he was to be buried in a deal coffin, no mourners were to follow it, no stone was to be erected over his grave, but it was to be made level with the ground. So, although it is well known that he lies in the kirk-garth, there is no trace of his resting-place.

The story of Barbara Lynn's life, outwardly so uneventful, but inwardly so full of passion, is still a tale often told by the winter fire in the lonely farmhouses and shepherds' cots of her own land. It has gained in incident with its passage down the century; many things that she did not do are reported of her; yet, although she thought she was not understood by her fellows, so significant and full of meaning are these additions, that her character lives again for those who have a meditative mind, a comprehending soul, and a tender heart.

Often—so it is said—the figure of a tall woman, with golden hair and blue eyes, has been seen on the hills by solitary watchers. She comes and goes with a wind in her skirts, and a lark singing over her head. These apparitions never bring trouble or sickness to the countryside, but sweet summer weather, an increase to the flocks, and abundance to the harvest.

For many years after her death Peter Fleming came to High Fold, spent a few days there, and then went away again. He lived in London and was happy, well-off, and full of honours. Sometimes alone, and sometimes with the little old man Timothy Hadwin, he visited the Great Barrow. There, with heads uncovered, the two men who loved her best talked in low tones, or talked not at all. Once Lucy accompanied them, but she could not restrain her grief, and after that she let her husband go alone, while she remained behind contentedly with her children, keeping his home merry and bright against his return.

As time passed she came to understand Peter better, and even got an inkling of the nature of his love for her sister. But upon that subject her lips remained for ever sealed. She had everything in her life to make her happy, and she was happy. Peter and she had memories, hopes, and sorrows which no one else shared, and so they were drawn nearer together, till the tie of husband and wife was as close as it could be, and held as sacredly. So the lives of all these men and women faded away.

If ever you go to the dales and fells, reader, spare a day to visit Boar Dale, stand by Barbara Lynn's Great Barrow, and think of her. You will hear the thunder of the force beside you, and see a buzzard floating in the blue. Look at the same grey fells, whose immobile features saw the death of one of the grandest souls that ever lived. Above all, look up to Thundergay, to Barbara's rugged nurse, friend and teacher, who helped her to be strong when she might have been weak. If you go at night you will see the Northern Crown shine, and you will remember that she wore her crown and wore it royally, though it bowed her head to sorrow and to death.

But Barbara is not dead; the good and the great never die. As Timothy Hadwin said to Peter the last time that he came to Boar Dale:

"Her spirit is here, in the wind, in the song of the beck, in the blades of grass. But most of all, she is here in our hearts, in your heart and mine, living in them, communing with them more closely than she did in life. The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God, and there shall no torment touch them."

The End