At this point the narrative¹ of my unfortunate friend, Mr. Graves of St Chad’s, breaks off abruptly². He wrote it shortly before his death, and was prevented from completing it by the shock of apoplexy which carried him off. In accordance with the instructions in his will, I have prepared it for publication, and now in much fear and hesitation³ give it to the world. First, however, I must supplement it by such facts as fall within my knowledge.

The shepherd seems to have gone to Allermuir and by the help of the letter convinced the inhabitants. A body of men was collected under the landlord, and during the afternoon set out for the hills. But unfortunately the great midsummer storm — the most terrible of recent climatic disturbances⁵ — had filled the mosses⁶ and streams, and they found themselves unable to proceed by any direct road. Ultimately late in the evening they arrived at the cottage of Farawa, only to find there a raving⁷ woman, the shepherd’s sister, who seemed crazy with brain-fever. She told some rambling⁸ story about her escape, but her narrative said nothing of Mr. Graves. So they treated her with what skill they possessed⁹, and sheltered for the night in and around the cottage. Next morning the storm had abated¹⁰ a little, and the woman had recovered something of her wits. From her they learned that Mr. Graves was lying in a ravine on the side of the Muneraw in imminent¹¹ danger of his life. A body set out to find him; but so immense was the landslip, and so dangerous the whole mountain, that it was nearly evening when they recovered him from the

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