these strangers (as he thought them) should be so favorably impressed
by his native county. But Tyrrel all the while looked ill at ease,
though he sidled away as far as possible from the edge of the cliff,
and sat down near Cleer at a safe distance from the precipice. He was
silent and preoccupied. That mattered but little, however, as the rest
did all the talking, especially Trevennack, who turned out to be
indeed a perfect treasure-house of Cornish antiquities and Cornish
folk-lore.

"I generally stand below, on top of Michael's Crag," he said to
Eustace, pointing it out, "when the tide allows it; but when it's
high, as it is now, such a roaring and seething scour sets through the
channel between the rock and the mainland that no swimmer could stem
it; and then I come up here, and look down from above upon it. It's
the finest point on all our Cornish coast, this point we stand on. It
has the widest view, the purest air, the hardest rock, the highest and
most fantastic tor of any of them."

"My husband's quite an enthusiast for this particular place," Mrs.
Trevennack interposed, watching his face as she spoke with a certain
anxious and ill-disguised wifely solicitude.

"He's come here for years. It has many associations for us."

"Some painful and some happy," Cleer added, half aloud; and Tyrrel,
nodding assent, looked at her as if expecting some marked recognition.

"You should see it in the pilchard season," her father went on,
turning suddenly to Eustace with much animation in his voice. "That's
the time for Cornwall--a month or so later than now--you should see it