Having drawn her water, Mrs. Pascoe went in. The tourists regretted that
they had brought no glasses, so that they might have read the name of
the tramp steamer. Indeed, it was such a fine day that there was no
saying what a pair of field-glasses might not have fetched into view.
Two fishing luggers, presumably from St. Ives Bay, were now sailing in
an opposite direction from the steamer, and the floor of the sea became
alternately clear and opaque. As for the bee, having sucked its fill of
honey, it visited the teasle and thence made a straight line to Mrs.
Pascoe's patch, once more directing the tourists' gaze to the old
woman's print dress and white apron, for she had come to the door of the
cottage and was standing there.

There she stood, shading her eyes and looking out to sea.

For the millionth time, perhaps, she looked at the sea. A peacock
butterfly now spread himself upon the teasle, fresh and newly emerged,
as the blue and chocolate down on his wings testified. Mrs. Pascoe went
indoors, fetched a cream pan, came out, and stood scouring it. Her face
was assuredly not soft, sensual, or lecherous, but hard, wise, wholesome
rather, signifying in a room full of sophisticated people the flesh and
blood of life. She would tell a lie, though, as soon as the truth.
Behind her on the wall hung a large dried skate. Shut up in the parlour
she prized mats, china mugs, and photographs, though the mouldy little
room was saved from the salt breeze only by the depth of a brick, and
between lace curtains you saw the gannet drop like a stone, and on
stormy days the gulls came shuddering through the air, and the steamers'
lights were now high, now deep. Melancholy were the sounds on a winter's
night.

The picture papers were delivered punctually on Sunday, and she pored