w distant, and
I fall into a reverie.

[Sidenote: A Cornish story of a girl's sorrow.]

Daft Bess

BY

KATE BURNLEY BELT

Up and down the little pier they paced in quarter-deck fashion, each
with his hands tucked deep down in the pockets of his sea-blanket coat,
and his oilskin cap pulled well over his ears.

They were very silent in their walk, these three old men, who had
watched the breakers come and go at Trewithen for over sixty years, and
handled the ropes when danger threatened. Trewithen Cove had sheltered
many a storm-driven ship within their memories, and there were
grave-mounds in the churchyard on the cliff still unclaimed and unknown
that had been built up by their hands.

Up and down, to and fro they went in the face of the flying spray, in
spite of the deepening mist that was creeping up over the darkening sea.

Benjamin Blake--once the handiest craftsman in the cove--was the first
to break the silence.

"'Tis a sa-ad night at sea, mates!" he shouted, and the roar of the
waves nearly drowned the sound of his voice.

"Iss, tu be zure, Benjamin Blake!" shouted Tom Pemberthy in answer, "an'
'twill be a ba-ad job fer more'n wan boat, I reckin, 'gainst marnin'!"

Then Joe Clatworthy, whose opinions were valued highly in the settlement
of all village disputes, so that he had earned for himself the nickname
of "Clacking Joe," stood still as they once more turned their backs on
the threatening sea, and said his say.

"A tell ee wot 'twill be, mates," he said solemnly and slowly. "You mark
my wurrds ef it dawn't cum truthy too,--there'll be terble loss uv
li-ife out there tu-night," and he waved his hand towards the blackening
sea, "an' us'll hev tu dig a fuu more graves, I reckin', cum marnin'!"

"The Lard hev murcy!" said Benjamin Blake, and the three resumed their
walk again.

Half an hour afterwards they were making their way along the one little
street of which Trewithen boasted to their homes; for a storm--the
roughest they had known for years--had burst overhead, and a man's life
is a frail thing in the teeth of a gale.

* * * * *

At the top of the cliff and beyond Trewithen churchyard by the length of
a field there stood a tiny cottage, in which lived Jacob Tresidder,
fisherman, and his daughter Bess.

"Daft Bess" the children called her as they played with her on the
sands, though she was a woman grown, and had hair that was streaked with
white.