ll, my dear son," he added in a voice
rich with emotion, as he thrust an open hand over a bowl of cream for
Castleton's grip.

Then Granfa told his old intimate tales of wrecks and famous seines of
fish, and even went so far as to offer to show Castleton on the very
next morning the corner of a field where with two legs and a stick he
could stand in the three parishes of Trenoweth, Nancepean and
Trewinnard. In fact he monopolized the guest throughout the meal, and
expressed very great regret when Castleton had to return to the One and
All Inn.

Trewhella questioned Jenny sharply that night about the stranger, tried
with all the fox in his nature to find out what part he had played in
her life.

"He's a friend of mine," she said.

"Did he ever come courting 'ee?"

"No, of course not. You don't think all men's like you?"

"What's he want to come down here along, if he's just a friend? Look,
missus, don't you go giving the village tongues a start by kicking up a
rig with yon great Cockney."

"Shut up," said Jenny. "Who cares about the village?"

"I do," said Trewhella. "I care a brae lot about it. Me and my folk have
lived here some long time and we've always been looked up to for clean,
decent souls."

"Get out!" scoffed Jenny. "And don't put ideas in your own head.
Village! Talking shop, I should say."

The next morning was fine, and when Castleton called at Bochyn, Jenny
intrusted May with young Frank and suggested a walk. Granfa, who was
present during the discussion of the itinerary, declared the towans must
be visited first of all. Jenny was rather averse from such a direction,
thinking of the watchers who lay all day in the rushes. However, when
she thought how deeply it would infuriate her husband to know that she
was walking over that solitude in the company of Castleton, she accepted
Granfa's suggestion with a deliberate audacity.

It was pleasant to walk with Fuz, to laugh at his excitement over
various birds and flowers unnoticed by her. It was pleasant to watch him
trip in a rabbit's hole and roll right down to the bottom of a
sand-drift. But best of all were the rests in deep dry hollows above
whose edges the rushes met the sky in wind-waved, sharply cut lines.
Down there, making idle patterns with snail-shells, she could listen to
gossip of dear old London. She could smell in the sea air wood pavement
and hear in the scurry of rabbits passengers by the Piccadilly Tube.

And yet there was a gu