tead of light and heat on
me my clothing could not have clung to me more uncomfortably. Coming at
length to a group of two or three small cottages at the roadside, I went
into one and asked for something to quench my thirst--cider or milk.
There was only water to be had, but it was good to drink, and the woman
of the cottage was so pretty and pleasant that I was glad to rest an
hour and talk with her in her cool kitchen. There are English counties
where it would perhaps be said of such a woman that she was one in a
thousand; but the Devonians are a comely race. In that blessed county
the prettiest peasants are not all diligently gathered with the dew
on them and sent away to supply the London flower-market. Among
the best-looking women of the peasant class there are two distinct
types--the rich in colour and the colourless. A majority are perhaps
intermediate, but the two extreme types may be found in any village or
hamlet; and when seen side by side--the lily and the rose, not to say
the peony--they offer a strange and beautiful contrast.

This woman, in spite of the burning climate, was white as any pale town
lady; and although she was the mother of several children, the face was
extremely youthful in appearance; it seemed indeed almost girlish in its
delicacy and innocent expression when she looked up at me with her blue
eyes shaded by her white sun-bonnet. The children were five or six in
number, ranging from a boy of ten to a baby in her arms--all clean and
healthy looking, with bright, fun-loving faces.

I mentioned that I was on my way to Branscombe, and inquired the
distance.

"Branscomb--are you going there? Oh, I wonder what you will think of
Branscombe!" she exclaimed, her white cheeks flushing, her innocent eyes
sparkling with excitement.

What was Branscombe to her, I returned with indifference; and what did
it matter what any stranger thought of it?

"But it is my home!" she answered, looking hurt at my careless words. "I
was born there, and married there, and have always lived at Branscombe
with my people until my husband got work in this place; then we had to
leave home and come and live in this cottage."

And as I began to show interest she went on to tell me that Branscombe
was, oh, such a dear, queer, funny old place! That she had been to other
villages and towns--Axmouth, and Seaton, and Beer, and to Salcombe Regis
and Sidmouth, and once to Exeter; but never, never had she seen a place
like Br