rs and freebooters." Now this was undoubtedly valuable, and
it would be rather a pity were it swept away altogether. Perhaps you
might keep the Inn--it might even be made into a Museum for relics of
old Pendragon--bits of Cornish crosses, stones, some quaint drawings of
the old town, now in the possession of Mr. Quilter, the lawyer.

The matter was much discussed at the Club, and there was no doubt as to
the feeling of the majority; let the Cove go--let them replace it with
a smart row of red-brick villas, each with its neat strip of garden and
handsome wooden paling.

Harry had learnt to listen in silence. He knew, for one thing, that no
one would pay very much attention if he did speak, and then, of late,
he had been flung very much into himself and his reserve had grown from
day to day. People did not want to listen to him--well, he would not
trouble them. He felt, too, as Newsome had once said to him, that he
belonged properly to "down-along," and he knew that he was out of touch
with the whole of that modern movement that was going on around him.
But sometimes, as he listened, his cheeks burned when they talked of
the Cove, and he longed to jump up and plead its defence; but he knew
that it would be worse than useless and he held himself in--but they
didn't know, they didn't know. It enraged him most when they spoke of
it as some lifeless, abstract thing, some old rubbish-heap that
offended their sight, and then he thought of its beauties, of the
golden sand and the huddling red and grey cottages clustering over the
sea as though for protection. You might fancy that the waves slapped
them on the back for good-fellowship when they dashed up against the
walls, or kissed them for love when they ran in golden ripples and
softly lapped the stones.

On the second night after his visit to Dahlia Feverel, Harry went down,
after dinner, to the Cove. He found those evening hours, before going
to bed, intolerable at the House. The others departed to their several
rooms and he was suffered to go to his, but the loneliness and
dreariness made reading impossible and his thoughts drove him out. He
had lately been often at the Inn, for this was the hour when it was
full, and he could sit in a corner and listen without being forced to
take any part himself. To-night a pedlar and a girl--apparently his
daughter--were entertaining the company, and even the melancholy sailor
with one eye seemed to share the feeling of gai