With such conversation Mr. Trotter beguiled the way until they came
abreast of a tiny village almost buried in apple trees and elms.
On the opposite bank, a thin column of blue smoke was curling up from
among the dense woodland.

Caleb headed the boat for this smoke, ran her nose on the pebbles
beneath a low cliff, and stepped out.

"'Ere we are, sir."

"But I don't see any house," said Mr. Fogo, perplexed.

"All in good time, sir," replied Mr. Trotter, and having fastened up
the boat, led the way.

A narrow flight of steps, hewn out of the rock, led up to the little
cliff. At the top, and almost hidden by bushes, stood a low gate.
Thence the path wound for a space between walls of budding hazel, and
at its end quite unexpectedly a tiny cottage burst upon Mr. Fogo's
view.

Little dreaming that the owner of Kit's House could live in such
humility, he was considerably surprised when Caleb stepped up and
struck a rousing knock upon the door.

It was opened by a comely girl with a white apron pinned before her
neat stuff gown, and a face as fresh and healthful as a spring day.

"Why, Caleb," she cried, "who would have thought it? Come inside;
you're as welcome as flowers in May."