hter died soon after, worn
out by anxiety about her father. This young lady's ghost continually
haunts a certain little village in Devon, where some of the fisherfolk
were said to have taken part in the kidnaping of her father. Instead
of doing anything more violent, the ghost simply appears on Sunday
mornings, just as the dinners are being cooked, and touches the meat
with her white, bony hand, thereby rendering it unfit to eat."

Mrs. Pitt's famous journal, which is often referred to, contains also
this story heard that day at Clovelly:

"In front of a certain farm-house was a large, flat stone, which
tradition said was as old as the Flood. Here, at midnight, there
always appeared a female figure, clad in a gray cloak and an
old-fashioned black bonnet. The apparition would remain there until
dawn, always knocking, knocking upon the stone. The inhabitants of the
house nearby became so used to 'Nelly the Knocker,' as she was called,
that they paid no attention whatever to her, did not fear her in the
least, and would even stop to examine her queer garments. Finally,
however, two young men of the family decided to solve the mystery, so
they blasted the rock one day. To their great surprise, underneath
were lying two large urns, packed with gold, which treasure enriched
them for the rest of their days. But 'Nelly the Knocker' came no
more."

In place of repairing to the somewhat stuffy dining-room at the inn,
they had their tea just outside one of the most sightly cottages, and
were served by a pretty young girl. The china was coarse and the thick
slices, cut with a big knife from huge loaves of bread, were by no
means daintily served, but it could not have tasted better, and John
ate a truly alarming amount of bread and jam.

At Clovelly, the summer twilights are very long and lovely, and down
on the breakwater our friends enjoyed this one to the full. One might
look over the blue expanse of bay and see the faint outlines of the
coast of Wales, and then turn and gaze at the picturesque harbor and
the quaint, hanging village, in the houses of which, lights were
slowly beginning to twinkle, one after another. They stayed until it
was quite dark, and were even then loath to wend their way up the
steep street, and to waste so many hours by going to bed in the
"Doll's House," as John persisted in calling the New Inn.

"Well," said Betty comfortingly, "it will be fun after all,--sleeping
in that funny wee inn, where ther