Within twenty minutes, he found himself in clouds of mist and had to peer ahead to make out where he was. He really couldn’t see anything, but his boots crunching on gravel reassured him he was on the wide path. It was not long after that he realized the crunching sound had stopped. Damn, he thought, I’m off the path. How did that happen? I’m lost!

This thought took hold as he walked on. He wasn’t sure what to do. A moment or two later, his dilemma was solved. Peering ahead he saw another person further along the path. Man or woman? He wasn’t sure. He plunged ahead, calling out, ‘Wait! Please wait! Wait for me.’

Suddenly, the mist lifted slightly and, as he rushed forward, he realized it was a young woman in a long, worn-out coat, wrapped in shawls and with a scarf around her head.

She had hidden behind an outcropping of rocks, and looked terrified. ‘Get away!’ she yelled. ‘Ye looks like a monster.’

‘I’m not a monster,’ he shot back. ‘Don’t be afeard, little colleen. I’m just a man who’s lost, looking to get to Fairley Hall.’

‘Fairley Hall!’ she exclaimed, edging out from behind the rocks. ‘Why do yer want ter go there?’ She peered at the man, intrigued now.

Realizing he had caught her interest, and that she sounded less afraid, he moved towards her. ‘Let me tell ye.’

‘Get back!’ she shouted. ‘Don’t move!’

‘I be going to Fairley Hall to do some chimney repairs,’ Blackie explained, gently now.

‘Where did ye meet the Squire?’ she asked cautiously, every inch of her alert.

Blackie had drawn closer, and he noticed she had the greenest eyes he had ever seen. And now they looked wary, and her face was stern. Yorkshire folk were suspicious, he knew. He said, ‘I met the Squire in Leeds. He’d heard I used to be a navvy, working on the canals. This told him I was strong and a good worker. And he knew my uncle.’

The girl moved out from behind the outcropping of rocks, and said in a more controlled tone, ‘I heard a navvy was coming ter the Hall. I’m going there, so yer can walk with me. What’s yer name then? Or don’t yer have one?’ She sounded scathing, and just a bit haughty.

Blackie laughed a deep belly laugh. ‘Sure an’ I do, I swear on the heads of the Blessed Saints. Shane O’Neill’s the name, but the whole world calls me Blackie.’

The girl looked up at him, trying to see him better in the vaporous mists. She decided he must be Irish, because of his name and the singsong voice he had, a sort of lilt in his speech.

‘And what might ye be called?’ he asked, breaking the silence.