corner of the cliff. It seems near enough, but, judged by the endless succession of slippery boulders that intervene, we find it a very long way indeed, and groan in our spirits as we slide and scramble after our leader, who bounds on in front, agile as a chamois, and twice as sure-footed as his progeny. Not one cropper does he come; but Amberley makes up for him—she slides majestically down the rocks as though born to the accomplishment, and even sits in the pools among the scurrying little crabs, from whence she has to be fished out by our united efforts. She makes no complaint though, far from it; her bruised shins, damaged elbows, and wet petticoats all come in the day's work.
We reach Cod's Bay at last, looking as though we had fallen among thieves, and take our way through its one unsavoury street, and climb a hill that would be trying in mid-winter, but in these dog-days is simply brutal. In two hours' time we get home, blowsy, footsore, and worn out, knowing that our evil days have indeed begun. Somehow the hours go by and blessed night-fall comes.
At the present moment I am standing with my hands behind my back, affectionately regarding a crab, garnished with frequent prawns and abundant bread and butter, which Jack and I have provided for supper, as a set-off against the disagreeables of the day. He has gone to fetch a jug of cider, when he comes back we shall fall to. I walk to the open window and look out. The dim grey of night is creeping over the land; the cold, salt smell of the sea blows faintly but most freshly up across the town; the lights yonder look like coarse reflections of the bright restless lamps that quiver and burn in the pale vault overhead. I lean my elbows on the window-sill, and look across at the rose garden, that, like many another in Devonshire, is on the other side of the road, and from whence a fragrant whiff comes now and again, and make a disastrous discovery. Those moving shadows yonder, what are
