k it
was the loveliest path I ever saw, that cliff way, with the gray rocks,
and the blue sea into which the sky had emptied itself, like a cup with
a silver rim. And the wild flowers--the little, dainty, pink-tipped
daisies, which I couldn't bear to crush--and the larks that sprang out
of the grass! There are things that make you feel so at _home_ in
England, dear. I think it is like no other country for that.

To-morrow we are to motor to Princetown, on Dartmoor--Eden Phillpotts
land--and are coming back to Torquay at night. If I have time I'll write
you a special Dartmoor letter, for I have an idea that I shall find the
moor wonderfully impressive. But we mayn't get back till late; and the
day after we are to start early in the morning for Sir Lionel's county,
Cornwall. Afterward we shall come back into another part of Devonshire,
and see Bideford and Exmoor. That's why I've been able to forget some of
my worries in "Westward Ho!" and "Lorna Doone" lately. But Sir Lionel
can't wait longer for Cornwall, and, so day-after-to-morrow night my
eyes shall look upon--only think of it--"dark Tintagel by the Cornish
sea." That is, we shall see it, Apollo permitting, for motors and men
gang aft aglee.

This isn't apropos of Apollo's usual behaviour, but of the stories we've
been told concerning Dartmoor roads. They say--well, there's nothing to
worry about with Sir Lionel at the helm; but I shouldn't wonder if
to-morrow will be an adventure.

There, now, I'm sorry I said that. You may be anxious; but I can't
scratch it out, and it's nearly at the bottom of _such_ a big sheet. So
I'll wire to-morrow night, when we get back, and you'll have the
telegram before you have this letter.

Your how-to-be-happy-though-undeserving,

But ever loving,

Audrie.

XVI

AUDRIE BRENDON TO HER MOTHER

_Still Torquay, Ten Thirty_,
_August 7th_

Dearest: I thought the moor would be impressive. It is
overwhelming. Oh, this Devonshire of my father's people is far from
being all a land of cream and roses!

Dartmoor has given me so many emotions that I am tired, but I must tell
you about it and them. When I shut my eyes, I see tors, like ruined
watch-towers, against the sky. And I see Princetown, grim and terrible.

No country can look its best on a map, no matter what colour be chosen
to express it; but I did like Dartmoor's rich brown, which set it apart
from the green parts of Devonshire. It took some time, though, even in