t-darkening sea. The oars were shipped, and Dan fell
to musing. He tried to recollect the occasion of his last visit to the
Cornish village from which his family had sprung, and was astonished to
find that, in the sum of ten thousand leagues of travel since manhood,
the little journey he was now taking did not once enter. He stroked
his red beard, perplexed at the oddity of the whole thing. He pictured
the steep, cobbled street leading up from the shore, and peeped into
every remembered window in the row of rude thatched cottages. Slowly
he recalled the names of old boy and girl companions who had played
with him around the doorstep of his grandfather's house. For half the
voyage the object which had prompted it was forgotten. The journey was
as silent as a secret journey should be. It began in twilight and
ended in darkness. The keel of the boat grated on the soft sand. Dan
and Nick Johnson stepped out.

"How long will ye be?" asked Davey's lad.

Dan pondered. "Ye cannot get back without us; 'twill be a matter of
hard rowing against the wind. I have been thinking. This place is
hallowed soil to me, and my feet have not trodden it for thirty years.
Bide thou here to-night; I will find thee supper and a pallet. There
are many folk with whom I would fain speak now that I am here. Keep a
still tongue concerning us: we will speak for ourselves. Tie up thy
boat, and ask for John Pengelly. If he be dead, ask for any of his
children; they will entertain thee for my sake."

Dan took his companion's arm, and climbed the tide-washed bank. He
stood for a moment listening and peering into the darkness, then he
made for the nearest cottage. The shutter was not closed, and the
faint glow of leaping firelight shone through the oiled paper stretched
across the bars of the lattice. The sailor turned to the door, and
pulled the latch string.

"Peace be to you all, friends," he said. "'Tis the voice of a Pengelly
that speaks."

"Come into the light, Pengelly. Your tongue doth not ring familiarly,"
came the answer.

Dan stepped forward, leaving Nick on the threshold.

A young fisherman and his wife sat in the narrow arc of the firelight,
and beside them, on a deerskin, their little son basked in the genial
warmth. The breeze through the open door fanned the glowing wood into
flame.

"Close the door, friend," said the fisherman.

"I have a comrade on the threshold."

"Then bring him in."

Nick entered,