began 'Bert. But Nicky-Nan interrupted.

"There, there, children! Run along an' don't ee play at trouble.
There's misery enough, the Lord knows--" He broke off on a twinge of
pain, and stared down-stream at the congregated masts in the little
harbour.

Polpier lies in a gorge so steep and deep that though it faces but a
little east of south, all its western flank lay already in deep
shadow. The sunlight slanting over the ridge touched the tops of the
masts, half a dozen of which had trucks with a bravery of gilt, while
a couple wore the additional glory of a vane. On these it flashed,
and passed on to bathe the line of cottages along the eastern shore,
with the coast-guard hut that stood separate beyond them on the round
of the cliff-track--all in one quiet golden glow. War? Who could
think of War? . . . Nicky-Nan at any rate let the thought of it slip
into the sea of his private trouble. It was as though he had hauled
up some other man's "sinker" and, discovering his mistake, let it
drop back plumb.

While he stared, the children had stolen away.

Yet he loitered there staring, in the hush of the warm afternoon,
lifting his eyes a little towards the familiar outline of the hills
that almost overlapped, closing out sight of the sea. A verse ran in
his head--"_I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills from whence
cometh my help_. . . ."

The slamming of a door at the street-corner beyond the bridge
recalled him to the world of action.