Enthusiastically the four started off. At first they all picked their
way carefully and slowly down over the smooth, slippery stones, but
gradually they became more expert in keeping their balance, and could
go faster. The two boys made straight for the foot of the town to see
the harbor and fishing-boats; Barbara and Betty were bent on
investigating all the nooks, corners, and tiny shops of the little
place; and Mrs. Pitt contentedly settled herself on the miniature
piazza of the New Inn, and looked with never-failing interest and
delight at the scene before her.

To explain more in detail, Clovelly is built in what was once a
torrent-bed, and the village tumbles down from the top of the cliff to
the very edge of Hartland Bay. The droll, Italian-like cottages cling
to the hillside, or seem to grow directly out of the gray rock. At
first, the street descends rather gradually and straight, but after a
short distance, it zigzags first to left and then to right, twists and
turns, takes one under parts of houses, into private yards, out to
look-off points, and then pitches very, very abruptly down to the Red
Lion Inn, which guards the little harbor with its long, curving
sea-wall and tiny lighthouse.

From where Mrs. Pitt sat she had a splendid view up and down the
street, which was then crowded, it being the busiest time of the
season. Just below her, up against the piazza, sat an artist, bent
eagerly forward toward his easel, and absolutely oblivious of the
throngs of people who were noisily passing close by. There were
tourists in gay attire, children romping about in their queer shoes
with nails on the bottom to prevent slipping, big stalwart men sliding
luggage down on sledges, and patient little mules, which struggled up
with big trunks fastened to shelf-like saddles over their backs. To
this busy scene the bright little dwellings which line the way, add
the finishing touch. The roof of one house is on a level with the
second-story window of that above it; the vines are luxuriant,
climbing sometimes up over the very chimneys, and flower-beds and
flower-boxes are everywhere. A holiday, festive air seems universal.

"Where can one see such a scene?" mused Mrs. Pitt. "Not in Italy
surely, for there the 'picturesque dirt,' as they call it, is so much
in evidence. For my part, I prefer the exquisite neatness and
cleanliness of Clovelly."

Lunch at the New Inn tasted very good,--especially as here the young
people firs