Half a lifetime ago, there lived in one of the Westmoreland dales a single woman, of the name of Susan Dixon. She was owner of the small farm-house where she resided, and of some thirty or forty acres of land by which it was surrounded. She had also an hereditary right to a sheep-walk, extending to the wild fells that overhang Blea Tarn. In the language of the country she was a Stateswoman. Susan and Michael were to be married in April. He had already gone to take possession of his new farm, three or four miles away from Yew Nook--but that is neighbouring, according to the acceptation of the word in that thinly-populated district, --when William Dixon fell ill. He came home one evening, complaining of head-ache and pains in his limbs.