"But what made you think of that now?"

"Merely what Coombes was about. The visual image was all. He was scooping
the green moss out of the eyes of the death's-head on the gravestone."

By this time we were on the top of the downs, and the wind was buffeting
us, and every other minute assailing us with a blast of rain. Wynnie drew
her cloak closer about her, bent her head towards the blast, and struggled
on bravely by my side. No one who wants to enjoy a walk in the rain must
carry an umbrella; it is pure folly. When we came to one of the stone
fences, we cowered down by its side for a few moments to recover our
breath, and then struggled on again. Anything like conversation was out of
the question. At length we dropped into a hollow, which gave us a little
repose. Down below the sea was dashing into the mouth of the glen, or
coomb, as they call it there. On the opposite side of the hollow, the
little house to which we were going stood up against the gray sky.

"I begin to doubt whether I ought to have brought you, Wynnie. It was
thoughtless of me; I don't mean for your sake, but because your presence
may be embarrassing in a small house; for probably the poor woman may
prefer seeing me alone."

"I will go back, papa. I sha'n't mind it a bit."

"No; you had better come on. I shall not be long with her, I daresay. We
may find some place that you can wait in. Are you wet?"

"Only my cloak. I am as dry as a tortoise inside."

"Come along, then. We shall soon be there."