r'aps he made a mistake. Anyways, 'tes a moral yarn, an' true to
natur'. These young wimmen es a very detarmined sex, whether 'tes a
leppard in the case or a Rooshan."

Mr. Fogo had fallen into a reflective silence.

"'Tes a thousand pities this 'ere place should be empty, wi' a
lean-to Crystal Pallis--by which I means a conserva-tory, sir--an'
gardens, an' room for a cow, an' a Pyll o' ets own--"

"A what?"

"Pyll, sir, otherwise a creek--'c, r, double e, k--an arm o' the
sea,' as the spellin' book says."

A curious fascination stole over Mr. Fogo as he looked earnestly at
the house round which these memories hung. Standing on an angle
formed by the bending river, and the little creek, and behind a
screen of trees--elms almost too old to feel the sap of spring, a
chestnut or two, and a few laurels and sombre firs, that had cracked
with their roots the grey garden wall and sprawled down to the beach
below--the stained and yellow frontage looked down towards the busy
harbour, as it seemed with a sense of serene decay, haunted but
without disquietude, like the face of an old lady who has memories
and lives in them, though she deigns to contemplate a life from which
her hopes, with her old friends and lovers, have dropped out.
Perhaps Mr. Fogo had some sympathy with this mood; for Caleb, after
waiting some time for his reply, took to his paddles again with a
will, and presently the boat, sweeping round a projecting rock,
passed into a very different scene.

Here the river, shut in on the one side with budding trees to the
water's edge, on the other with bracken and patches of ploughed land
to where the cliffs broke sheer away, stretched for some miles
without bend or break. Far ahead a blue bank of woodland closed the
view. Not a sound disturbed the stillness, not a sail broke the
placid expanse of water.

But a true Trojan must still be talking. Presently Caleb resumed.

"'Tes a luvly spot, as you said, sir. Mr. Moggridge down at the
customs--he's a poet, as maybe you know--has written a mint o' verses
about this 'ere place. 'Natur', he says:--"

"Natur' has 'ere assoomed her softest garb;
'Ere would I live an' die

"--which I calls a very touchin' sentiment, an' like what they says
in a nigger song."

With such conversation Mr. Trotter beguiled the way until they came
abreast of a tiny village almost buried in apple trees and elms.
On the opposite bank, a thin column of blue smoke was cu