It was on the afternoon of the twentieth of August, 1877, that I and my friend, Tonnison, arrived at the little village of Kraighten, where we intended to stay the night. We had tramped since early morning, and were tired. Also, we were hungry; though this last we did not know thoroughly, until the scent of cooking, coming from the direction of a small inn, drew us thither. We put up there, and after a wash and brush up, had a meal, which we both enjoyed thoroughly. Afterward, Tonnison had a pipe, and lay down on his bed; while I went out to have a look at the surrounding country.
The village, which consisted of a few cottages and two or three larger buildings, stood in the midst of a tangled waste of bushes and gorse. It was hidden away in a deep hollow, and the place seemed to possess a quiet, restful atmosphere, that was very grateful after our rough tramp. I walked up the winding road, for a short distance, and then stopped and looked back. The sun was low, and the whole village was lit up in the warm glow of the evening light. Smoke was rising from some of the chimneys, and I could see figures moving about in the gardens. Presently, Tonnison joined me, and we stood silently looking at the quaint little hamlet.