g.

His greeting was, as ever, boisterous. "Hullo! Trojan! that's
splendid! I was afraid they'd carry you off to that church of yours or
you'd have a tea-party or something. I'm glad they've spared you."

"No, I went this morning," Harry answered, "all of us solemnly in the
family coach. I thought that was enough for one day."

"We used to have a carriage when papa was alive," said Mrs. Bethel,
"and we drove to church every Sunday. We were the only people beside
the Porsons, and theirs was only a pony-cart."

"Well, for my part, I hate driving," said Mary. "It puts you in a bad
temper for the sermon."

"Let's have tea," said Bethel. "I'm as hungry as though I'd listened
to fifty parsons."

And, indeed, he always was. He ate as though he had had no meal for a
month at least, and he had utterly demolished the tea-cake before he
realised that no one else had had any.

"Oh, I say, I'm so sorry," he said ruefully. "Mary, why didn't you
tell me? I'll never forgive myself----" and proceeded to finish the
saffron buns.

"All the same," said Mary, "we're going to church to-night, all of us,
and if you're very good, Mr. Trojan, you shall come too."

Harry paused for a moment. "I shall be delighted," he said; "but where
do you go?"

"There's a little church called St. Sennan's. You haven't heard of it,
probably. It's past the Cove--on a hill looking over the sea. It's
the most tumble-down old place you ever saw, and nobody goes there
except a few fishermen, but we know the clergyman and like him. I like
the place too--you can listen to the sea if you're bored with the
sermon."

"The parson is like one of the prophets," said Bethel. "Too strong for
the Pendragon point of view. It's a place of ruins, Trojan, and the
congregation are like a crowd of ancient Britons--but you'll like it."

Mrs. Bethel was unwontedly quiet--it was obvious that she was in
distress; Mary, too, seemed to speak at random, and there was an air of
constraint in the room.

When they set off for church the grey sky had changed to blue; the sun
had just set, and little pink clouds like fairy cushions hung round the
moon. As they passed out of the town, through the crooked path down to
the Cove, Harry had again that strong sense of Cornwall that came to
him sometimes so suddenly, so strangely, that it was almost mysterious,
for it seemed to have no immediate cause, no absolute relation to
surrounding sights or sounds. Perhaps t