ch-gate.
He was going to toll the passing-bell.

THE GIFTS OF FEODOR HIMKOFF.

It is just six years ago that I first travelled the coast from
Gorrans Haven to Zoze Point.

Since then I have visited it in fair weather and foul; and in time,
perhaps, shall rival the coastguardsmen, who can walk it blindfold.
But to this day it remains in my recollection the coast I trod,
without companion, during four dark days in December. It was a rude
introduction. The wind blew in my face, with scuds of cold rain; a
leaden mist hung low on the left, and rolled slowly up Channel.
Now and then it thinned enough to reveal a white zigzag of breakers
in front, and a blur of land; or, far below, a cluster of dripping
rocks, with the sea crawling between and lifting their weed. But for
the most part I saw only the furze-bushes beside the path, each
powdered with fine raindrops, that in the aggregate resembled a coat
of grey frieze, and the puffs of spray that shot up over the cliff's
lip and drenched me.

Just beyond the Nare Head, where the path dipped steeply, a bright
square disengaged itself from the mist as I passed, and, around it,
the looming outline of a cottage, between the footpath and the sea.
A habitation more desolate than this odd angle of the coast could
hardly have been chosen; on the other hand, the glow of firelight
within the kitchen window was almost an invitation. It seemed worth
my while to ask for a drink of milk there, and find out what manner
of folk were the inmates.

An old woman answered my knock. She was tall, with a slight stoop,
and a tinge of yellow pervading her face, as if some of the
complexion had run into her teeth and the whites of her eyes.
A clean white cap, tied under the chin with tape, concealed all but
the edge of her grey locks. She wore a violet turnover, a large
wrapper, a brown stuff gown that hardly reached her ankles, and thick
worsted stockings, but no shoes.

"A drink o' milk? Why not a dish o' tea?"

"That will be troubling you," said I, a bit ashamed for feeling so
little in want of sustenance.

"Few they be that troubles us, my dear. Too few by land, an' too
many by sea, rest their dear souls! Step inside by the fire.
There's only my old man here, an' you needn't stand 'pon ceremony wi'
_he_: for he's stone-deaf an' totelin'. Isaac, you poor deaf
haddock, here's a strange body for 'ee to look at; tho' you'm past
all pomp but buryin', I reckon." She sighed as I