nified. "How dare you address me in this fashion!"

"I'm addressin' you for your good," answered Sally. "We've been
talkin' over your sermon, me and my friends here--all very
respectable women--and we've made up our minds that it won't do.
We can't have it 'pon our conscience to let a gentleman with your
views go kicking up Jack's delight through the West. We owe
something more to our sex. 'Wrestlin' with 'em--that was one of your
expressions--'wrestlin' with our dear Cornish sisters'!"

"In the spirit--a figure of speech," explained the poor man,
snappy-like.

Sal shook her head. "They know all about wrestlin' down yonder.
I tell you, 'twon't do. You're a well-meaning man, no doubt; but
you're terribly wrong on some points. You'd do an amazing amount of
mischief if we let you run loose. But we couldn't take no such
responsibility--indeed we couldn't: and the long and short of it is,
you've got to go."

She spoke these last words very firmly. The preacher flung a glance
round and saw he was in a trap.

"Such shameless behaviour--" he began.

"You've got to go back," repeated Sally, nodding her head at him.
"Take my advice and go quiet."

"I can only suppose you to be intoxicated," said he, and swung round
upon the path where Thomasine Oliver stood guard. "Allow me to pass,
Madam, if you please!"

But here the mischief put it into Long Eliza to give his hat a flip
by the brim. It dropped over his nose and rolled away in the grass.
"Oh, what a dear little bald head!" cried Long Eliza; "I declare I
must kiss it or die!" She caught up a handful of hay as he stooped,
and--well, well, Sir! Scandalous, as you say! Not a word beyond
this would any of them tell: but I do believe the whole gang rolled
the poor man in the hay and took a kiss off him--"making sweet hay,"
as 'tis called. 'Twas only known that he paid the bill for his
lodging a little after dawn next morning, took up his bag, and passed
down Fore Street towards the Quay. Maybe a boat was waiting for him
there: at all events, he was never seen again--not on this side of
Tamar.

Sal went back, composed as you please, and let herself in by the
front door. In the parlour she found her man still seated in the
easy chair and smoking, but sulky-like, and with most of his
monkey-temper leaked out of him.

"What have you been doin', pray?" asks he.

Sal looked at him with a twinkle. "Kissin'," says she, untying her
bonnet: and with that down