little Dorothea was the only one of the merry crowd who cared to
turn aside with me from the beaten tourist-track, and give up the sight
of another English cathedral for the sake of a quiet day among the
Quantock Hills. Was it the literary association of that little corner
of Somersetshire with the names of Wordsworth and Coleridge that
attracted her, I wonder? Or was it the promise that we would hire a
dog-cart, if one could be found, and that she should be the driver all
through the summer day? I confess my incompetence to decide the
question. When one is fifteen years old, a live horse may be as
interesting as two dead poets. Not for the world would I put Dorothea
to the embarrassment of declaring which was first in her mind.

When she and I got out of the railway carriage, in the early morning,
at the humble station of Watchet, (barely mentioned in the guide-book,)
our travelling companions jeered gently at our enterprise. As the train
rumbled away from the platform, they stuck their heads out of the
window and cried, "Where are you going? And how are you going to get
there?" Upon my honour, I did not know. That was just the fun of it.

But there was an inn at Watchet, though I doubt whether it had ever
entertained tourists. The friendly and surprised landlady thought that
she could get us a dog-cart to drive across the country; but it would
take about an hour to make ready. So we strolled about the town, and
saw the sights of Watchet.

They were few and simple; yet something, (perhaps the generous sunshine
of the July day, or perhaps an inward glow of contentment in our
hearts,) made them bright and memorable. There were the quaint, narrow
streets, with their tiny shops and low stone houses. There was the
coast-guard station, with its trim garden, perched on a terrace above
the sea. There was the life-boat house, with its doors wide open, and
the great boat, spick and span in the glory of new paint, standing
ready on its rollers, and the record of splendid rescues in past years
inscribed upon the walls. There was the circular basin-harbour, with
the workmen slowly repairing the breakwater, and a couple of ancient
looking schooners reposing on their sides in the mud at low tide. And
there, back on the hill, looking down over the town and far away across
the yellow waters of the Bristol Channel, was the high tower of St.
Decuman's Church.

"It was from this tiny harbour," said I to Dorothea, "that a great
friend