ety and chuckled
solemnly at long intervals. It was a scene full of colour; the lamps
in the window shone golden through the haze of smoke on to the black
beams of the ceiling, the dust-red brick of the walls and floor, and
the cavernous depths of the great fireplace. Sitting cross-legged on
the table in the centre of the room was the pedlar, a little, dark,
beetle-browed man, and at his side were his wares, his pack flung open,
and cloths of green and gold and blue and red flung pell-mell at his
side. Leaning against the table, her hands on her hips, was the girl,
dark like her father, tall and flat-chested, with a mass of black hair
flung back from her forehead. No one knew from what place they had
come nor whither they intended to go--such a visit was rare enough in
these days of trains--and the little man's reticence was attacked again
and again, but ever unsuccessfully. There were perhaps twenty sailors
in the room, and they sat or stood by the fireplace watching and
listening.

Harry slipped in and took his place by Newsome in the corner.

"I will sing," said the girl.

She stood away from the table and flung up her head--she looked
straight into the fire and swayed her body to the time of her tune.
Her voice was low, so that men bent forward in order that they might
hear, and the tune was almost a monotone, her voice rising and falling
like the beating of the sea, with the character of her words. She sang
of a Cornish pirate, Coppinger, "Cruel Coppinger," and of his deeds by
land and sea, of his daring and his cleverness and his brutality, and
the terror that he inspired, and at last of his pursuit by the king's
cutter and his utter vanishing "no man knew where." But gradually as
her song advanced Coppinger was forgotten and her theme became the
sea--she spoke like one possessed, and her voice rose and fell like the
wind--all Time and Place were lost. Harry felt that he was unbounded
by tradition of birth or breeding, and he knew that he was absolutely
as one of these others with him in the room--that he felt that call of
those old gods just as they did. The girl ceased and the room was
silent. Through the walls came the sound of the sea--in the fire was
the crackling of the coals, and down the great chimney came a little
whistle of the wind. "A mighty fine pome 'tis fur sure," said the
white-bearded sailor solemnly, "and mostly wonderful true." He sighed.
"They'm changed times," he said.

The gi