Explore "Lost on the Fells" by L.L. Weedon on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
IT was a soft Autumn day -- and the dying grass looked yellow on the fells. Beyond, and above them, the mountains rose in great wide sweeps, with misty caps hiding the summits. Down in the village street a woman was standing in the doorway of a small house with a little girl.
"Just take her a bit of a run, Harriet," she said to an elder child, who was standing patiently in the roadway, "but don't tire her, like a good little lass -- nor yourself neither -- you know your way over the low fell, and you'll be back by tea-time. The washing'll be done by then, and I won't say but what you'll find a cake in the oven."