St. Michael's Crag below it. As the engineer drew near he saw the
stranger was not alone. Under shelter of the rocks a girl lay
stretched at length on a loose camel's-hair rug; her head was hatless;
in her hand she held, half open, a volume of poetry. She looked up as
Eustace passed, and he noted at a glance that she was dark and pretty.
The Cornish type once more; bright black eyes, glossy brown hair, a
rich complexion, a soft and rounded beauty.

"Cleer," the father said, warningly, in a modulated voice, as the
young man approached, "don't let your hat blow away, dear; it's close
by the path there."

The girl he called Cleer darted forward and picked it up, with a
little blush of confusion. Eustace Le Neve raised his hat, by way of
excuse for disturbing her, and was about to pass on, but the view down
into the bay below, with the jagged and pointed crag islanded in white
foam, held him spellbound for a moment. He paused and gazed at it.
"This is a lovely lookout, sir," he said, after a second's silence, as
if to apologize for his intrusion, turning round to the stranger, who
still stood poised like a statue on the natural pedestal of lichen-
covered rock beside him. "A lovely lookout and a wonderful bit of wild
coast scenery."

"Yes," the stranger answered, in a voice as full of dignity as his
presence and his mien. "It's the grandest spot along the Cornish
coast. From here you can see in one view St. Michael's Mount, St.
Michael's Crag, St. Michael's Church, and St. Michael's Promontory.
The whole of this country, indeed, just teems with St. Michael."

"Which is St. Michael's Promontory?" the young man asked, with a side