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  IN THE HIGH VALLEY.

  "'I suppose we shall never see the ocean from where weare to live,' said Imogen."--PAGE 15.]

  IN THE HIGH VALLEY.

  BEING

  THE FIFTH AND LAST VOLUME

  OF

  _THE KATY DID SERIES_.

  BY

  SUSAN COOLIDGE,

  AUTHOR OF

  "THE NEW YEAR'S BARGAIN," "WHAT KATY DID," "WHAT KATY DID AT SCHOOL," "WHAT KATY DID NEXT," "MISCHIEF'S THANKSGIVING," "CROSS PATCH," "A GUERNSEY LILY," "NINE LITTLE GOSLINGS," "A LITTLE COUNTRY GIRL," "A ROUND DOZEN," "CLOVER," "EYEBRIGHT," "JUST SIXTEEN," ETC.

  BOSTON: ROBERTS BROTHERS. 1896.

  _Copyright_, _1891_, BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.

  =University Press:= JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.

  CONTENTS.

  CHAPTER PAGE

  I. ALONG THE NORTH DEVON COAST 7

  II. MISS OPDYKE FROM NEW YORK 40

  III. THE LAST OF DEVON AND THE FIRST OF AMERICA 65

  IV. IN THE HIGH VALLEY 93

  V. ARRIVAL 127

  VI. UNEXPECTED 149

  VII. THORNS AND ROSES 174

  VIII. UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER 204

  IX. THE ECHOES IN THE EAST CANYON 235

  X. A DOUBLE KNOT 267

  IN THE HIGH VALLEY.

  CHAPTER I.

  ALONG THE NORTH DEVON COAST.

  IT was a morning of late May, and the sunshine, though rather watery,after the fashion of South-of-England suns, was real sunshine still, andglinted and glittered bravely on the dew-soaked fields about CopplestoneGrange.

  This was an ancient house of red brick, dating back to the last half ofthe sixteenth century, and still bearing testimony in its sturdy bulk tothe honest and durable work put upon it by its builders. Not a joist hadbent, not a girder started in the long course of its two hundred and oddyears of life. The brick-work of its twisted chimney-stacks was intact,and the stone carving over its doorways and window frames; only theimmense growth of the ivy on its side walls attested to its age. Ittakes longer to build ivy five feet thick than many castles, and thoughnew masonry by trick and artifice may be made to look like old, there isno secret known to man by which a plant or tree can be induced tosimulate an antiquity which does not rightfully belong to it.Innumerable sparrows and tomtits had built in the thick mats of the oldivy, and their cries and twitters blended in shrill and happy chorus asthey flew in and out of their nests.

  The Grange had been a place of importance, in Queen Elizabeth's time, asthe home of an old Devon family which was finally run out andextinguished. It was now little more than a superior sort of farm-house.The broad acres of meadow and pleasaunce and woodland which had given itconsequence in former days had been gradually parted with, asmisfortunes and losses came to its original owners. The woods had beenfelled, the pleasure grounds now made part of other people's farms, andthe once wide domain had contracted, until the ancient house stood withonly a few acres about it, and wore something the air of an old-timebelle who has been forcibly divested of her ample farthingale andhooped-petticoat, and made to wear the scant kirtle of a village maid.

  Orchards of pear and apple flanked the building to east and west. Behindwas a field or two crowning a little upland where sedate cows feddemurely; and in front, toward the south, which was the side ofentrance, lay a narrow walled garden, with box-bordered beds full ofearly flowers, mimulus, sweet-peas, mignonette, stock gillies, and blushand damask roses, carefully tended and making a blaze of color on theface of the bright morning. The whole front of the house was draped witha luxuriant vine of Gloire de Dijon, whose long, pink-yellow buds andcream-flushed cups sent wafts of delicate sweetness with every puff ofwind.

  Seventy years before the May morning of which we write, CopplestoneGrange had fallen at public sale to Edward Young, a well-to-do banker ofBideford. He was a descendant in direct line of that valiant Young who,together with his fellow-seaman Prowse, undertook the dangerous task ofsteering down and igniting the seven fire-ships which sent the Spanisharmada "lumbering off" to sea, and saved England for Queen Elizabeth andthe Protestant succession.

  Edward Young lived twenty years in peace and honor to enjoy hispurchase, and his oldest son James now reigned in his stead, havingreared within the old walls a numerous brood of sons and daughters, nowscattered over the surface of the world in general, after the sturdyBritish fashion, till only three or four remained at home, waiting theirturn to fly.

  One of these now stood at the gate. It was Imogen Young, oldest but oneof the four daughters. She was evidently waiting for some one, andwaiting rather impatiently.

  "We shall certainly be late," she said aloud, "and it's quite too bad ofLion." Then, glancing at the little silver watch in her belt, she beganto call, "Lion! Lionel! Oh, Lion! do make haste! It's gone twenty past,and we shall never be there in time."

  "Coming," shouted a voice from an upper window; "I'm just washing myhands. Coming in a jiffy, Moggy."

  "Jiffy!" murmured Imogen. "How very American Lion has got to be. He'salways 'guessing' and 'calculating' and 'reckoning.' It seems as if hedid it on purpose to startle and annoy me. I suppose one has got to getused to it if you're over there, but really it's beastly bad form, and Ishall keep on telling Lion so."

  She was not a pretty girl, but neither was she an ill-looking one.Neither tall nor very slender, her vigorous little figure had still acertain charm of trim erectness and youthful grace, though Imogen wastwenty-four, and considered herself very staid and grown-up. A fresh,rosy skin, beautiful hair of a warm, chestnut color, with a naturalwave in it, and clear, honest, blue eyes, went far to atone for a thicknose, a wide mouth, and front teeth which projected slightly and seemeda size too large for the face to which they belonged. Her dress didnothing to assist her looks. It was woollen, of an unbecoming shade ofyellowish gray; it fitted badly, and the complicated loops and hitchesof the skirt bespoke a fashion some time since passed by among those whowere particular as to such matters. The effect was not assisted by apork-pie hat of black straw trimmed with green feathers, a pink ribbonfrom which depended a silver locket, a belt of deep magenta-red, yellowgloves, and an umbrella bright navy-blue in tint. She had over her arm apurplish water-proof, and her thick, solid boots could defy the mud ofher native shire.

  "Lion! Lion!" she called again; and this time a tall young fellowresponded, running rapidly down the path to join her. He was two yearsher junior, vigorous, alert, and boyish, with a fresh skin, and tawny,waving hair like her own.

  "How long you have been!" she cried reproachfully.

  "Grieved to have kept you, Miss," was the reply. "You see, things wentcontrairy-like. The grease got all over me when I was cleaning the guns,and cold water wouldn't take it off, and that old Saunders took his timeabout bringing the can of hot, till at last I rushed down and fetched itup myself from the copper. You should have seen cook's face! 'Fancy,Master Lionel,' says she, 'coming yourself for 'ot water!' I tell you,Moggy, Saunders is past his usefulness. He's a regular duffer--a gump."

  "There's another American expression. Saunders is a most respectableman, I'm sure, and has been in the family thirty-one years. Of c
ourse hehas a good deal to do just now, with the packing and all. Now, Lion, weshall have to walk smartly if we're to get there at half-after."

  "All right. Here goes for a spin, then."

  The brother and sister walked rapidly on down the winding road, in thehalf-shadow of the bordering hedges. Real Devonshire hedge-rows theywere, than which are none lovelier in England, rising eight and ten feetoverhead on either side, and topped with delicate, flickering birch andash boughs blowing in the fresh wind. Below were thick growths ofhawthorn, white and pink, and wild white roses in full flowerinterspersed with maple tips as red as blood, the whole interlaced andheld together with thick withes and tangles of ivy, briony, andtravellers' joy. Beneath them the ground was strewn withflowers,--violets, and king-cups, poppies, red campions, and blueiris,--while tall spikes of rose-colored foxgloves rose from among ranksof massed ferns, brake, hart's-tongue, and maiden's-hair, with here andthere a splendid growth of Osmund Royal. To sight and smell, thehedge-rows were equally delightful.

  Copplestone Grange stood three miles west of Bideford, and the house towhich the Youngs were going was close above Clovelly, so that adistance of some seven miles separated them. To walk this twice for thesake of lunching with a friend would seem to most young Americans tooformidable a task to be at all worth while, but to our sturdy Englishpair it presented no difficulties. On they went, lightly and steadily,Imogen's elastic steps keeping pace easily with her brother's longertread. There was a good deal of up and down hill to get over with, andwhenever they topped a rise, green downs ending in wooded cliffs couldbe seen to the left, and beyond and below an expanse of white-fleckedshimmering sea. A salt wind from the channel blew in their faces, fullof coolness and refreshment, and there was no dust.

  "I suppose we shall never see the ocean from where we are to live," saidImogen, with a sigh.

  "Well, hardly, considering it's about fifteen-hundred miles away."

  "Fifteen hundred! oh, Lion, you are surely exaggerating. Why, the wholeof England is not so large as that, from Land's End to John O'Groat'sHouse."

  "I should say not, nothing like it. Why Moggy, you've no idea how smallour 'right little, tight little island' really is. You could set it downplump in some of the States, New York, for instance, and there would bequite a tidy fringe of territory left all round it. Of course, morally,we are the standard of size for all the world, but geographically,phew!--our size is little, though our hearts are great."

  "I think it's vulgar to be so big,--not that I believe half you say,Lion. You've been over in America so long, and grown such a Yankee, thatyou swallow everything they choose to tell you. I've always heard aboutAmerican brag--"

  "My dear, there's no need to brag when the facts are there, staring youin the face. It's just a matter of feet and inches,--any one can do themeasurement who has a tape-line. Wait till you see it. And as for itsbeing vulgar to be big, why is the 'right little, tight little' alwaysstretching out her long arms to rope in new territory, in that case, Ishould like to know? It would be much eleganter to keep herself tohome--"

  "Oh, don't talk that sort of rot; I hate to hear you."

  "I must when you talk that kind of--well, let us say 'rubbish.' 'Rot' isone of our choice terms which hasn't got over to the States yet. You'reas opiniated and 'narrer' as the little island itself. What do you knowabout America, any way? Did you ever see an American in your life,child?"

  "Yes, several. I saw Buffalo Bill last year, and lots of Indians andcow-boys whom he had fetched over. And I saw Professor--Professor--whatwas his name? I forget, but he lectured on phrenology; and then therewas Mrs. Geoff Templestowe."

  "Oh Mrs. Geoff--she's a different sort. Buffalo Bill and his show canhardly be treated as specimens of American society, and neither can yourbump-man. But she's a fair sample of the nice kind; and you liked her,now didn't you? you know you did."

  "Well, yes, I did," admitted Imogen, rather grudgingly. "She was reallyquite nice, and good-form, and all that, and Isabel said she was far andaway the best sister-in-law yet, and the Squire took such a fancy to herthat it was quite remarkable. But she cannot be used as an argument, forshe's not the least like the American girls in the books. She must havehad unusual advantages. And after all,--nice as she was, she wasn'tEnglish. There was a difference somehow,--you felt it though youcouldn't say exactly what it was."

  "No, thank goodness--she isn't; that's just the beauty of it. Why shouldall the world be just alike? And what books do you mean, and what girls?There are all kinds on the other side, I can tell you. Wait till you getover to the High Valley and you'll see."

  This sort of discussion had become habitual of late between the brotherand sister. Three years before, Lionel had gone out to Colorado, to"look about and see how ranching suited him," as he phrased it, and haddecided that it suited him exactly. He had served a sort ofapprenticeship to Geoffrey Templestowe, the son of an old Devonshireneighbor, who had settled in a place called High Valley, and, togetherwith two partners, had built up a flourishing and lucrative cattlebusiness, owning a large tract of grazing territory and great herds. Oneof the partners was now transferred to New Mexico, where the firm ownedland also, and Mr. Young had advanced money to buy Lionel, who was nowcompetent to begin for himself, a share in the business. He was nowgoing out to remain permanently, and Imogen was going also, to keep hishouse and make a home for him till he should be ready to marry andsettle down.

  All over the world there are good English sisters doing this sort ofthing. In Australia and New Zealand they are to be found, in Canada, andIndia, and the Transvaal,--wherever English boys are sent to advancetheir fortunes. Had her destination been Canada or Australia, Imogenwould have found no difficulty in adjusting her ideas to it, but theUnited States were a _terra incognita_. Knowing absolutely nothing aboutthem, she had constructed out of a fertile fancy and a few facts analtogether imaginary America, not at all like the real one; peopled bystrange folk quite un-English in their ideas and ways, and very hard tounderstand and live with. In vain did Lionel protest and explain; hisremonstrances were treated as proofs of the degeneracy and blindnessinduced by life in "The States," and to all his appeals she opposed thatcalm, obstinate disbelief which is the weapon of a limited intellect andexperience, and is harder to deal with than the most passionateconvictions.

  Unknown to herself a little sting of underlying jealousy tinctured theseopinions. For many years Isabel Templestowe had been her favoritefriend, the person she most admired and looked up to. They had been atschool together,--Isabel always taking the lead in everything, Imogenfollowing and imitating. The Templestowes were better born than theYoungs, they took a higher place in the county; it was a distinction aswell as a tender pleasure to be intimate in the house. Once or twiceIsabel had gone to her married sister in London for a taste of the"season." No such chance had ever fallen to Imogen's lot, but it wasnext best to get letters, and hear from Isabel of all that she had seenand done; thus sharing the joys at second-hand, as it were.

  Isabel had other intimates, some of whom were more to her than Imogencould be, but they lived at a distance and Imogen close at hand.Propinquity plays a large part in friendship as well as love. Imogen hadno other intimate, but she knew too little of Isabel's other intereststo be made uncomfortable about them, and was quite happy in her positionas nearest and closest confidante until, four years before, GeoffreyTemplestowe came home for a visit, bringing with him his American wife,whose name before her marriage had been Clover Carr, and whom some ofyou who read this will recognize as an old friend.

  Young, sweet, pretty, very happy, and "horribly well-dressed," as poorImogen in her secret soul admitted, Clover easily and quickly won theliking of her "people-in-law." All the outlying sons and daughters whowere within reach came home to make her acquaintance, and all werecharmed with her. The Squire petted and made much of his new daughterand could not say enough in her praise. Mrs. Templestowe averred thatshe was as good as she was pretty, and as "sensible" as if she had beenborn and brought up in
England; and, worst of all, Isabel, for the timeof their stay, was perfectly absorbed in Geoff and Clover, and thoughkind and affectionate when they met, had little or no time to spend onImogen. She and Clover were of nearly the same age, each had a thousandinteresting things to tell the other, both were devoted to Geoffrey,--itwas natural, inevitable, that they should draw together. Imogenconfessed to herself that it was only right that they should do so, butit hurt all the same, and it was still a sore spot in her heart thatIsabel should love Clover so much, and that they should write such longletters to each other. She was a conscientious girl, and she foughtagainst the feeling and tried hard to forget it, but there it was allthe same.

  But while I have been explaining, the rapid feet of the two walkers hadtaken them past the Hoops Inn, and to the opening of a rough shady lanewhich made a short cut to the grounds of Stowe Manor, as theTemplestowes' place was called.

  They entered by a private gate, opened by Imogen with a key which shecarried, and found themselves on the slope of a hill overhung withmagnificent old beeches. Farther down, the slope became steeper andnarrowed to form the sharp "chine" which cut the cliff seaward to thewater's edge. The Manor-house stood on a natural plateau at the head ofthe ravine, whose steep green sides made a frame for the beautifulpicture it commanded of Lundy Island, rising in bold outlines overseventeen miles of blue, tossing sea.

  The brother and sister paused a moment to look for the hundredth time atthis exquisite glimpse. Then they ran lightly down over the grass towhere an intersecting gravel-path led to the door. It stood hospitablyopen, affording a view of the entrance hall.

  Such a beautiful old hall! built in the time of the Tudors, with a greatcarven fireplace, mullioned windows in deep square bays, and a ceilingcarved with fans, shields, and roses. "Bow-pots" stood on the sills,full of rose-leaves and spices, huge antlers and trophies of weaponsadorned the walls, and the polished floor, almost black with age, shonelike a looking-glass.

  Beyond opened a drawing-room, low-ceiled and equally quaint in build.The furniture seemed as old as the house. There was nothing with amodern air about it, except some Indian curiosities, a water-color ortwo, the photographs of the family, and the fresh flowers in the vases.But the sun shone in, there was a great sense of peace and stillness,and beside a little wood-fire, which burned gently and did not hiss orcrackle as it might have done elsewhere, sat a lovely old lady, whosefresh and peaceful and kindly face seemed the centre from which all thehome look and comfort streamed. She was knitting a long silk stocking, avolume of Mudie's lay on her knee, and a skye terrier, blue, fuzzy, andsleepy, had curled himself luxuriously in the folds of her dress.

  This was Mrs. Templestowe, Geoff's mother and Clover's mother-in-law.She jumped up almost as lightly as a girl to welcome the visitors.

  "Take your hat off, my dear," she said to Imogen, "or would you ratherrun up to Isabel's room? She was here just now, but her father calledher off to consult about something in the hot-house. He won't keep herlong-- Ah, there she is now," as a figure flashed by the window; "I knewshe would be here directly."

  Another second and Isabel hurried in, a tall, slender girl with thick,fair hair, blue eyes with dark lashes, and a look of breeding anddistinction. Her dress, very simple in cut, suited her, and had thatundefinable air of being just right which a good London tailor knows howto give. She wore no ornaments, but Imogen, who had felt ratherwell-dressed when she left home, suddenly hated her gown and hat,realized that her belt and ribbon did not agree, and wished for thedozenth time that she had the knack at getting the right thing whichIsabel possessed.

  "Her clothes grow prettier all the time, and mine get uglier," shereflected. "The Squire says she got points from Mrs. Geoff, and that theAmericans know how to dress if they don't know anything else; but that'snonsense, of course,--Isabel always did know how; she didn't need anyone to teach her."

  Pretty soon they were all seated at luncheon, a hearty and substantialmeal, as befitted the needs of people who had just taken a seven-milewalk. A great round of cold beef stood at one end of the table, achicken-pie at the other, and there were early peas and potatoes, a hugecherry-tart, a "junket" equally large, strawberries, and various cakesand pastries, meant to be eaten with a smother of that delicacy peculiarto Devonshire, clotted cream. Every body was very hungry, and not muchwas said till the first rage of appetite was satisfied.

  "Ah!" said the Squire, as he filled his glass with amber-huedcider,--"you don't get anything so good as this to drink over inAmerica, Lionel."

  "Indeed we do, sir. Wait till you taste our lemonade made with naturalsoda-water."

  "Lemonade? phoo! Poor stuff I call it, cold and thin. I hope Geoff hassome better tipple than that to cheer him in the High Valley."

  "Iced water," suggested Lionel, mischievously.

  "Don't talk to me about iced water. It's worse than lemonade. It's theperpetual use of ice which makes the Americans so nervous, I amconvinced."

  "But, papa, are they so nervous? Clover certainly isn't."

  "Ah! my little Clover,--no, she wasn't nervous. She was nothing that sheought not to be. I call her as sweet a lass as any country need want tosee. But Clover's no example; there aren't many like her, I fancy,--eh,Lion?"

  "Well, Squire, she's not the only one of the sort over there. Hersister, who married Mr. Page, our other partner, you know, is quite aspretty as she is, and as nice, too, though in a different way. Andthere's the oldest one--the wife of the naval officer, I'm not sure butyou would like her the best of the three. She's a ripper inlooks,--tall, you know, with lots of go and energy, and yet as sweet andwomanly as can be; you'd like her very much, you'd like all of them."

  "How is the unmarried one?--Joan, I think they call her," asked Mrs.Templestowe.

  "Oh!" said Lionel, rather confused, "I don't know so much about her.She's only once been out to the valley since I was there. She seems anice girl, and certainly she's mighty pretty."

  "Lion's blushing," remarked Imogen. "He always does blush when he speaksof that Miss Carr."

  "Rot!" muttered Lionel, with a wrathful look at his sister. "I donothing of the kind. But, Squire, when are you coming over to see foryourself how we look and behave? I think you and the Madam would enjoy asummer in the High Valley very much, and it would be no end of larks tohave you. Isabel would like it of all things."

  "Oh, I know I should. I would start to-morrow, if I could. I'm comingacross to make Clover and Imogen a long visit the first moment that papaand mamma can spare me."

  "That will be a long time to wait, I fear," said her mother, sadly."Since Mr. Matthewson married and carried off poor Helen's children, thehouse has seemed so silent that except for you it would hardly be worthwhile to get up in the morning. We can't spare you at present, dearchild."

  "I know, mamma, and I shall never go till you can. The perfect thingwould be that we should all go together."

  "Yes, if it were not for that dreadful voyage."

  "Oh, the voyage is nothing," broke in the irrepressible Lionel, "youjust take some little pills; I forget the name of them, but they makeyou safe not to be sick, and then you're across before you know it. Theships are very comfortable,--electric bells, Welsh rabbits at bed-time,and all that, you know."

  "Fancy mamma with a Welsh rabbit at bed-time!--mamma, who cannot evenrow down to Gallantry on the smoothest day without being upset! You mustbait your hook with something else, Lionel, if you hope to catch her."

  "How would a trefoil of clover-leaves answer?" with a smile,--"she,Geoff, and the boy."

  "Ah, that dear baby. I wish I _could_ see the little fellow. He is sopretty in his picture," sighed Mrs. Templestowe. "That bait would landme if anything could, Lion. By the way, there are some little parcelsfor them, which I thought perhaps you would make room for, Imogen."

  "Yes, indeed, I'll carry anything with pleasure. Now I'm afraid we mustbe going. Mother wants me to step down to Clovelly with a message forthe landlady of the New Inn, and I've set my heart upon walking oncemo
re to Gallantry Bower. Can't you come with us, Isabel? It would be sonice if you could, and it's my last chance."

  "Of course I will. I'll be ready in five minutes, if you really can'tstay any longer."

  The three friends were soon on their way, under a low-hung sky, whichlooked near and threatening. The beautiful morning was fled.

  "We had better cut down into the Hobby grounds and get under the trees,for I think it's going to be wet," said Imogen.

  The suggestion proved a wise one, for before they emerged from theshelter of the woods it was raining smartly, and the girls were glad oftheir water-proofs and umbrellas. Lionel, with hands in pockets, strodeon, disdaining what he was pleased to call "a little local shower."

  "You should see how it pours in Colorado," he remarked. "That's worthcalling rain! Immense! Noah would feel perfectly at home in it!"

  The tax of threepence each person, by which strangers are ingeniouslymade to contribute to the "local charities," was not exacted of them atthe New Road Gate, on the strength of their being residents, andpersonal friends of the owners of Clovelly Court. A few steps fartherbrought them to the top of a zig-zag path, sloping sharply downward atan angle of some sixty-five degrees, paved with broad stones, andflanked on either side by houses, no two of which occupied the samelevel, and which seemed to realize their precarious footing, and hug therift in which they were planted as limpets hug a rock.

  This was the so-called "Clovelly Street," and surely a moreextraordinary thing in the way of a street does not exist in the knownworld. The little village is built on the sides of a crack in atremendous cliff; the "street" is merely the bottom of the crack, intowhich the ingenuity of man has fitted a few stones, set slant-wise, withintersecting ridges on which the foot can catch as it goes slippinghopelessly down. Even to practised walkers the descent is difficult,especially when the stones are wet. The party from Stowe were familiarwith the path, and had trodden it many times, but even they picked theirsteps, and went "delicately" like King Agag, holding up umbrellas in onehand, and with the other catching at garden palings and the edges ofdoor-steps to save themselves from pitching headlong, while beside themlittle boys and girls with the agility of long practice, went downmerrily almost at a run, their heavy, flat-bottomed shoes making aclap-clap-clapping noise as they descended, like the strokes of a malleton wood.

  Looking up and above the quaint tenements that bordered the "street,"other houses equally quaint could be seen on either side rising aboveeach other to the top of the cliff, in whose midst the crack which heldthe village is set. How it ever entered into the mind of man to utilizesuch a place for such a purpose it was hard to conceive. Theeccentricity of level was endless, gardens topped roofs,gooseberry-bushes and plum-trees seemed growing out of chimneys, talltrees rose apparently from ridge-poles, and here and there against thesky appeared extraordinary wooden figures of colossal size, Mermaids andBritannias and Belle Savages, figure-heads of forgotten ships which oldsea-captains out of commission had set up in their gardens to remindthem of perils past. The weather-beaten little houses looked centuriesold, and all had such an air of having been washed accidentally intotheir places by a great tidal wave that the vines and flowers whichoverhung them affected the new-comer with a sense of surprise.

  Down went the three, slipping and sliding, catching on and recoveringthemselves, till they came to a small, low-browed building dating backfor a couple of centuries or so, which was the "New Inn." "Old" and"new" have a local meaning of their own in Clovelly which does notexactly apply anywhere else.

  Up two little steps they passed into a narrow entry, with a parlor onone side and on the other a comfortable sort of housekeeper's room,where a fire was blazing in a grate with wide hobs. Both rooms as wellas the entry were hung with plates, dishes, platters, and bowls, setthickly on the walls in groups of tens and scores and double-scores, assuited their shape and color. The same ceramic decoration ran upstairsand pervaded the rooms above more or less; a more modern brick-buildingon the opposite side of the street which was the "annex" of the Inn, wasequally full; hundreds and hundreds of plates and saucers and cups,English and Delft ware chiefly, and blue and white in color. It had beenthe landlady's hobby for years past to form this collection of china,and it was now for sale to any one who might care to buy.

  Isabel and Lionel ran to and fro examining "the great wall of China," ashe termed it, while Imogen did her mother's errand to the landlady. Thenthey started again to mount the hill, which was an easier task thangoing down, passing on the way two or three parties of tourists holdingon to each other, and shrieking and exclaiming; and being passed by aminute donkey with two sole-leather trunks slung on one side of him, andon the other a mountainous heap of hand-bags and valises. This is theonly creature with four legs, bigger than a dog, that ever gets down theClovelly street; and why he does not lose his balance, topple backward,and go rolling continuously down till he falls into the sea below,nobody can imagine. But the valiant little animal kept steadily on,assisted by his owner, who followed and assiduously whacked him with astout stick, and he reached the top much sooner than any of his bipedfollowing. One cannot have too many legs in Clovelly,--a centipede wouldfind himself at an uncommon advantage.

  At the top of the street is the "Yellery Gate" through which our partypassed into lovely park grounds topping a line of fine cliffs which leadto "Gallantry Bower." This is the name given to an enormous headlandwhich falls into the sea with a sheer descent of nearly four hundredfeet, and forms the western boundary of the Clovelly roadstead.

  The path was charmingly laid out with belts of woodland and clumps offlowering shrubs. Here and there was a seat or a rustic summer-house,commanding views of the sea, now a deep intense blue, for the rain hadceased as suddenly as it came, and broad yellow rays were streaming overthe wet grass and trees, whose green was dazzling in its freshness.Imogen drew in a long breath of the salt wind, and looked wistfullyabout her at the vivid turf, the delicate shimmer of blowing leaves, andthe tossing ocean, as if trying to photograph each detail in hermemory.

  "I shall see nothing so beautiful over there," she said. "Dear oldDevonshire, there's nothing like it."

  "Colorado is even better than 'dear old Devonshire,'" declared herbrother; "wait till you see Pike's Peak. Wait till I drive you throughthe North Cheyenne Canyon."

  But Imogen shook her head incredulously.

  "Pike's Peak!" she answered, with an air of scorn. "The name is enough;I never want to see it."

  "Well, you girls are good walkers, it must be confessed;" said Lionel,as they emerged on the crossing of the Bideford road where they mustseparate. "Isabel looks as fresh as paint, and Moggy hasn't turned ahair. I don't think Mrs. Geoff could stand such a walk, or any of herfamily."

  "Oh, no, indeed; Clover would feel half-killed if she were asked toundertake a sixteen-mile walk. I remember, when she was here, we justwent down to the pier at Clovelly for a row on the Bay and back throughthe Hobby, six miles in all, perhaps, and she was quite done up, poordear, and had to go on to the sofa. I can't think why American girls arenot better walkers,--though there _was_ that Miss Appleton we met atZermatt, who went up the Matterhorn and didn't make much of it. Good-by,Imogen; I shall come over before you start and fetch mamma's parcels."