the Cove, the mighty grey
rocks of Trelennan's Jump, the strange, solemn permanency of the four
grey stones on the moor, were as nothing; their hearts were probably in
Peckham.

He turned a little sadly from the ordered discipline of the garden; the
shining green of the lawns, the blazing red and gold of its flowers
almost annoyed him--it was not what he had expected. Then, suddenly,
he came upon a little tangled wood--a strange, deserted place, with
tall grasses and wild ferns and a little brook bubbling noisily over
shining white and grey pebbles. He remembered it; how well he
remembered it. He had often been there in those early days. He had
tried to make a little mill in the brook. He had searched there for
some of those strange creatures about whom Tony Tregoth, the old
gardener, had told him--fauns and nymphs and the wild god Pan. He had
never found anything; but its wild, disordered beauty had made a
fitting setting for Tony's wild, disordered legends.

It was still almost exactly as it had been twenty years before; no one
had attempted improvement. He stayed there for some time, thinking,
regretting, dreaming--it was the only part of the garden that was real
to him.

He passed down the avenue and out through the white stone gates as one
in a dream. Something was stirring within him. It was not that during
those years in New Zealand he had forgotten. He had longed again and
again with a passionate, burning longing for the grey cliffs and the
sea and the haunting loneliness of the moor; for the Cornwall that he
had loved from the moment of his birth--no, he had never forgotten.
But there was waking in him again that strange, half-inherited sense of
the eternal presence of ancient days and old heathen ceremonies, and
the manners of men who had lived in that place a thousand years before.
He had known it when he was a boy; when he had chased rabbits over the
moor, when he had seen the mist curling mysteriously from the sea and
wrapping land and sky in a blinding curtain of grey, when he had stood
on Trelennan's Jump and watched the white, savage tossing of the foam
hundreds of feet below; he had sometimes fancied that he saw them,
those wild bearded priests of cruelty, waiting smilingly on the silent
twilit moor for victims--they had always been cruel; something terrible
in the very vagueness of their outline.

Now the old thoughts came back to him, and he almost fancied that he
could see the strange