passed by renewing the whitewash on the landmark boulders that point
the path on dark nights to the stumbling wayfarer. Le Neve paused and
spoke to him. "That's a fine-looking man, my friend, the gentleman on
the tor there," he said, after a few commonplaces. "Do you happen to
know his name? Is he spending the summer about here?"

The man stopped in his work and looked up. His eye lighted with
pleasure on the dignified stranger. "Yes; he's one of the right sort,
sir," he answered, with a sort of proprietary pride in the
distinguished figure. "A real old Cornish gentleman of the good old
days, he is, if ever you see one. That's Trevennack of Trevennack; and
Miss Cleer's his daughter. Fine old crusted Cornish names, every one
of them; I'm a Cornishman myself, and I know them well, the whole
grand lot of them. The Trevennacks and the Bassets, they was all one,
time gone by; they owned St. Michael's Mount, and Penzance, and
Marazion, and Mullion here. They owned Penmorgan, too, afore the
Tyrrels bought it up. Michael Basset Trevennack, that's the
gentleman's full name; the eldest son of the eldest son is always a
Michael, to keep up the memory of the times gone by, when they was
Guardians of the Mount and St. Michael's Constables. And the lady's
Miss Cleer, after St. Cleer of Cornwall--her that gives her name still
to St. Cleer by Liskeard."

"And do they live here?" Le Neve asked, much interested in the
intelligent local tone of the man's conversation.

"Lord bless you, no, sir. They don't live nowhere. They're in the
service, don't you see. They lives in Malta or Gibraltar, or wherever
the Admiralty sends him. He's an Admiralty man, he is, connected with
the Vittling Yard. I was in the navy myself, on the good old Billy