he Cliff walk is very celebrated, you know. Lots of people
have written things about it."

"Oh, I should think they would. It is the most beautiful place I ever
saw."

"You haven't seen many places, have you?" observed Gertrude, rather
impolitely.

"Oh no, I never saw anything but North Tolland till I came to Newport."

"Then you can't judge."

They had now turned, and were walking eastward toward the beach. Its
line of breaking surf could be distinctly seen now. Carriages and people
on horseback were driving or riding along the sands, and groups of black
dots were discernible, which were other people on foot.

"There is Pulpit Rock," said Gertrude, stopping where a shelving path
slanted down toward a great square mass of stone, which was surrounded
on three sides by water. "Would you like to go down and sit on top for
a little while? I am rather tired."

"Oh, I should like to so much."

Down they scrambled accordingly, and in another moment were on top of
the big rock. It was almost as good as being at sea; for when they
turned their backs to the shore nothing could be seen but water and
sails and flying birds, and nothing heard but the incessant plash and
dash of the waves below.

"Oh, how perfectly splendid!" cried Cannie. "I should think you would
come here every day, Gertrude."

"Yes, that's what people always say when they first come," said the
experienced Gertrude. "But I assure you we don't come every day, and we
don't want to. Why, sometimes last summer I didn't see the Cliffs for
weeks and weeks together. It's nice enough now when there are not many
people here; but after the season begins and the crowd, it isn't nice at
all. You see all sorts of people that you don't know, and--and--well--it
isn't pleasant."

"I can't think what you mean," declared Cannie, opening her eyes with
amazement. "I'd just as soon there were twenty people on this rock, if I
needn't look at them and they didn't talk to me. The sea would be just
the same."

"You'll feel differently when you've been in Newport awhile. It's not at
all the fashion to walk on the Cliffs now except on Sunday, and not at
this end of them even then. A great many people won't bathe,
either,--they say it has grown so common. Why, it used to be the thing
to walk down here,--all the nicest people did it; and now you never see
anybody below Narragansett Avenue except ladies'-maids and butlers, and
people who are boarding at the hotels and don't kno