calendar said August 13th, the temperature talked it down,
and insisted on November, so an invitation into a clean, warm kitchen
was acceptable. The nice man poked up the dying fire, put on wood and
coals, and soon got a kettle of water to boiling. We should have some
good hot coffee, he cheerily promised, before we could say "Jack
Robinson." But when it leaked out that we had had no dinner except a
sandwich at Tintagel, and nothing since, his warm Devonshire heart
yearned over us; and to the hot coffee he added eggs and bacon.

While the dear things fizzled and bubbled, we were allowed to sit by the
stove and toast our feet; and if anything could have smelled more
heavenly than the salt rain and sweet honeysuckle out of doors, it would
have been the eggs and bacon in the New Inn kitchen.

We begged to eat in the kitchen, too, and even that was permitted us, at
a table spread with a clean cloth which must have been put away in a
lavender cupboard. By the time the coffee, with foaming hot milk, and
the sizzling eggs and bacon were ready, the early daylight was blue on
the window panes. The rain had stopped with the first hint of sunrise,
and in Clovelly at least (Clovelly means "shut in valley," a name not
worthy of its elfin charm) the wind had gone to sleep.

I don't know how much Sir Lionel suggested paying for that breakfast,
but it must have been something out of the way, for our Devonshire
benefactor protested that it was far too much. He would accept the
regular price, and no more. Why, we had only got him up an hour before
his usual time. That was nothing. It would do him good; and he would
have no extra pay.

Warm, comfortable, and refreshed, Sir Lionel and I bade our host
good-bye, meaning to continue our journey to Bideford; but what we saw
outside was too beautiful to turn our backs upon in that unappreciative,
summary fashion. It was not sunrise yet, but was just going to be
sunrise, and the world seemed to be waiting for it, hushed and
expectant.

The white village glimmered in the pearly light, like a waterfall
arrested in its rush down a cleft in a hill. Not having seen Clovelly,
you may think that a far-fetched simile; but really it isn't. If a young
cataract could be turned into a village, that would be Clovelly. The
marvellous little place is absolutely unique; yet if one could liken it
to anything else on earth, it might be to a corner of Mont St. Michel,
or a bit of old Bellagio, going down to t