nties was
more lovely; and as yet it was, so to speak, undiscovered. With the
exception of the vicarage there was no other house, worthy the name, in
the coombe; all the rest were fishermen's cots. The nearest inn and
shops were on the fringe of the moor behind and beyond the Lorton's
cottage; the nearest house of any consequence was that of the local
squire, three miles away. The market town of Shallop was eight miles
distant, and the only public communication with it was the carrier's
cart, which went to and fro twice weekly. In short, Shorne Mills was out
of the world, and will remain so until the Railway Fiend flaps his
coal-black wings over it and drops, with red-hot feet, upon it to sear
its beauty and destroy its solitude. It had got its name from a flour
and timber mill which had once flourished halfway down the coombe or
valley; but the wheels were now silent, the mills were falling to
pieces, and the silver stream served no more prosaic purpose than
supplying the fishing folk with crystal water which was pure as the
stars it reflected. This stream, as it ran beside the road or meandered
through the sloping meadows, made soft music, day and night, all through
the summer, but swelled itself into a torrent in the winter, and roared
as it swept over the smooth bowlders to its bridegroom, the sea;
sometimes it was the only sound in the valley, save always the murmur of
the ocean, and the shrill weird cry of the curlew as it flew from the
sea marge to the wooded heights above.

Nell loved the place with a great and exceeding love, with all the love
of a girl to whom beauty is a continual feast. She knew every inch of
it; for she had lived in the cottage on the hill since she was a child
of seven, and she was now nearly twenty-one. She knew every soul in the
fishing village, and, indeed, for miles around, and not seldom she was
spoken of as "Miss Nell, of Shorne Mills;" and the simple folk were as
proud of the title as was Nell herself. They were both fond and proud of
her. In any cottage and at any time her presence was a welcome one, and
every woman and child, when in trouble, flew to her for help and comfort
even before they climbed to the vicarage--that refuge of the poor and
sorrowing in all country places.

As she swung to the little gate behind her this morning, she paused and
looked round at the familiar scene; and its beauty, its grandeur, and
its solitude struck her strangely, as if she were looking at it