ternoon I found him sitting with
his hands on his knees, staring straight before him. He rose heavily
when he saw me, and stalked out. In the evening, as I was starting for
the coastguard station to ask for help to search the cliff, Pasiance
appeared, walking as if she could hardly drag one leg after the other.
Her cheeks were crimson; she was biting her lips to keep tears of sheer
fatigue out of her eyes. She passed me in the doorway without a word.
The anxiety he had gone through seemed to forbid the old man from
speaking. He just came forward, took her face in his hands, gave it a
great kiss, and walked away. Pasiance dropped on the floor in the dark
passage, and buried her face on her arms. "Leave me alone!" was all she
would say. After a bit she dragged herself upstairs. Presently Mrs.
Hopgood came to me.

"Not a word out of her--an' not a bite will she ate, an' I had a pie all
ready--scrumptious. The good Lord knows the truth--she asked for brandy;
have you any brandy, sir? Ha-apgood'e don't drink it, an' Mister Ford 'e
don't allaow for anything but caowslip wine."

I had whisky.

The good soul seized the flask, and went off hugging it. She returned it
to me half empty.

"Lapped it like a kitten laps milk. I misdaoubt it's straong, poor lamb,
it lusened 'er tongue praaperly. 'I've a-done it,' she says to me,
'Mums-I've a-done it,' an' she laughed like a mad thing; and then, sir,
she cried, an' kissed me, an' pusshed me thru the door. Gude Lard! What
is 't she's a-done...?"

It rained all the next day and the day after. About five o'clock
yesterday the rain ceased; I started off to Kingswear on Hopgood's nag to
see Dan Treffry. Every tree, bramble, and fern in the lanes was dripping
water; and every bird singing from the bottom of his heart. I thought of
Pasiance all the time. Her absence that day was still a mystery; one
never ceased asking oneself what she had done. There are people who never
grow up--they have no right to do things. Actions have consequences--and
children have no business with consequences.

Dan was out. I had supper at the hotel, and rode slowly home. In the
twilight stretches of the road, where I could touch either bank of the
lane with my whip, I thought of nothing but Pasiance and her grandfather;
there was something in the half light suited to wonder and uncertainty.
It had fallen dark before I rode into the straw-yard. Two young bullocks
snuffled at me, a sleepy