voice had a kind of childish ferocity.

The travellers turned their back on him and continued their way.

"Sich a curmudgeon!" Dickson commented. His face had flushed,
for he was susceptible to rudeness. "Did you notice? That
man's a foreigner."

"He's a brute," said Heritage. "But I'm not going to be done in by
that class of lad. There can be no gates on the sea side, so we'll
work round that way, for I won't sleep till I've seen the place."

Presently the trees grew thinner, and the road plunged through
thickets of hazel till it came to a sudden stop in a field.
There the cover ceased wholly, and below them lay the glen of
the Laver. Steep green banks descended to a stream which swept in
coils of gold into the eye of the sunset. A little farther down the
channel broadened, the slopes fell back a little, and a tongue of
glittering sea ran up to meet the hill waters. The Laver is a
gentle stream after it leaves its cradle heights, a stream of clear
pools and long bright shallows, winding by moorland steadings and
upland meadows; but in its last half-mile it goes mad, and imitates
its childhood when it tumbled over granite shelves. Down in that
green place the crystal water gushed and frolicked as if determined
on one hour of rapturous life before joining the sedater sea.

Heritage flung himself on the turf.

"This is a good place! Ye gods, what a good place! Dogson, aren't
you glad you came? I think everything's bewitched to-night.