wouldn't shut, so that a cat or a dog spent the night by my bed-
side now and then, and many a donkey tried to do the same, but was
evicted.

Oh, the Clovelly mornings! the sunshine, the salt air, the savour
of the boats and the nets, the limestone cliffs of Gallantry Bower
rising steep and white at the head of the village street, with the
brilliant sea at the foot; the walks down by the quay pool (not key
pool, you understand, but quaay puul in the vernacular), the sails
in a good old herring-boat called the Lorna Doone, for we are in
Blackmore's country here.

We began our first day early in the morning, and met at nine-
o'clock breakfast in the coffee-room. Egeria came in glowing. She
reminds me of a phrase in a certain novel, where the heroine is
described as always dressing (seemingly) to suit the season and the
sky. Clad in sea-green linen with a white collar, and belt, she
was the very spirit of a Clovelly morning. She had risen at six,
and in company with Phoebe, daughter of her house (the yellow-
haired lassie mentioned previously), had prowled up and down North
Hill, a transverse place or short street much celebrated by
painters. They had met a certain bold fisher-lad named Jem,
evidently Phoebe's favourite swain, and explored the short passage
where Fish Street is built over, nicknamed Temple Bar.

Atlas came in shortly after and laid a nosegay at Egeria's plate.

"My humble burnt-offering, your ladyship," he said.

Tommy: "She has lots of offerings, but she generally prefers to