hat we were desperately hungry. But instead
of going up to our own hotel, we walked into the quaint village (whose
real name is Trevena, though nobody calls it that) and had something to
eat at a hotel where Sir Lionel used to stop occasionally when he was a
boy. Afterward, we went to see the village schoolmaster, whom he knew;
such a nice man, who paints pictures as well as teaches the
children--and I felt guilty at being introduced as Sir Lionel's "ward."
I think my conscience is like a bruised peach, pinched by many fingers
to see if it's ripe, I have that guilty feeling so often! When we spoke
of the schoolmaster's versatility, he laughed and said it was "nothing
to his predecessor's," who used to cut the children's hair, clip horses,
measure land, act as parish clerk as well as teacher, pull teeth, and
beat such transgressors as had to be punished in a way less serious than
prison. Doesn't that take one back to long ago? But so does everything
in Tintagel--and all over Cornwall, Sir Lionel says. They have such nice
old-fashioned words here! Isn't "jingle" good? It's some kind of a
conveyance, exactly the opposite of a motor-car, I fancy, from the
description. And I like the word "huer," too. It means a man who gives
the hue and cry when the pilchards are coming in, and all the fishermen
must run to the sea.

I should like to know everything about Cornwall, from the smugglers, and
the famous wrestlers, to the witches--the last of whom lives near
Boscastle still. But the little that travellers in motors can learn
about places steeped in history, is like trying to know all about a
beautiful great tree by one leaf of flying gold which falls into the
automobile as it sweeps by, along the road. Still, the little one does
learn is unforgettable, impressed upon the mind in a different way from
the mere _learning_. And I suppose few people know everything about
every place, even in their own countries. If they did, I'm sure they'd
be prigs, and no one would want to know _them_!

When we got back to our hotel castle on the cliff, the Tyndals' motor
was at the door, a huge, gorgeous chariot, and nothing would do but we
must "try the car." Mrs. Senter had promised to go, and was putting on
her hat.

The Tyndals are difficult people to resist, because if you try to make
excuses they pin you down in one way or another, so that you must either
do what they want or hurt their feelings; and though Sir Lionel is
supposed to have