hose days they kept the French prisoners. He was
strolling back, with his hands clasped behind him under his
coat-tails, when on the knap of the hill, between him and the town,
he caught sight of a bevy of women seated among the hay-pooks--staid
middle-aged women, all in dark shawls and bonnets, chattering there
in the dusk. As he came along they all rose up together and dropped
him a curtsy.

"Good evenin', preacher dear," says Sally, acting spokeswoman; "and a
very fine night for the time of year."

I reckon that for a moment the preacher took a scare. Monstrous fine
women they were to be sure, looming up over him in the dimmety light,
and two or three of them tall as Grenadiers. But hearing himself
forespoken so pleasantly, he came to a stand and peered at them
through his gold-rimmed glasses.

"Ah, good evening, ladies!" says he. "You are, I presoom, members
of the society that I've just had the privilege of addressin'?"
And thereupon they dropped him another curtsy all together.
"Like me, I dare say you find the scent of the new-mown hay
refreshingly grateful. And what a scene! What a beautiful porch, so
to speak, to the beauties of Cornwall!--beauties of which I have
often heard tell."

"Yes, Sir," answers Sal demurely. "Did you ever hear tell, too, why
Old Nick never came into Cornwall?"

"H'm--ha--some proverbial saying, no doubt? But--you will excuse
me--I think we should avoid speaking lightly of the great Enemy of
Mankind."

"He was afraid," pursued Sal, "of being put into a pie." She paused
at that, giving her words time to sink in. The preacher didn't
notice yet awhile that Long Eliza Treleaven and Thomasine Oliver had
crept round a bit and planted themselves in the footpath behind him.

After a bit Sal let herself go in a comfortable smile, and says she,
in a pretty, coaxing voice, "Sit yourself down, preacher, that's a
dear: sit yourself down, nice and close, and have a talk!"

The poor fellow fetched a start at this. He didn't know, of course,
that everyone's "my dear" in Cornwall, and I'm bound to say I've seen
foreigners taken aback by it--folks like commercial travellers, not
given to shyness as a rule.

"You'll excuse me, Madam."

"No, I won't: not if you don't come and sit down quiet. Bless the
man, I'm not going to eat 'ee--wouldn't harm a hair of your dear
little head, if you had any! What? You refuse?"

"How dare you, Madam!" The preacher drew himself up, mighty
dig