“Where is it you wish to go, Sir?”

“To Gethin; where there is an inn, I believe.  Is it not so?”

“Yes, Sir.”  Her words were sane and concise enough, but the tone in which they were spoken was tremulous and alarmed.

“You are not afraid of me, are you?” said Richard, in the voice that he had inherited from his mother.

“No, Sir, no,” answered she, hurriedly; “only the fog was so thick, and I was startled.  I did not expect to find any body here.  It is very lonely about Gethin, and we do not in general see any of the quality who come to sketch and such like”—­and she pointed to his portfolio—­“until much later in the year.”

“I am not the quality,” rejoined Richard, smiling, “but only a wandering artist, who has heard of the beauties of Gethin.  What has been told me, however, comes far short of the reality, believe me;” and he cast a glance of genuine admiration upon the blushing girl.

A slender fair-haired maiden she was, with soft blue eyes, over which the lids were modestly but attractively drooped.  One who had a great experience of the sex—­if not a very respectable one—­has left on record a warning against eyelids.  “A wicked woman,” says he, “will take you with her eyelids.”

It does not, however, require wickedness to ensnare a young gentleman by these simple means.

“I wish, my pretty damsel,” said Richard, softly, “that I painted figures instead of landscapes, for then I should ask you to be my model.”

It was not modesty so much as sheer ignorance which kept the young girl silent; she had never heard of a painter’s model; but the tone in which her new acquaintance spoke implied a compliment, and she looked more confused than ever.

“Have you often so thick a fog as this at Gethin?”

“Not often, Sir; this is a very bad one, and you might have come to harm in it.  Some folks believe that in such weather the Pixies come abroad, as they do at night, to mislead travelers who have lost their way; and, indeed, the clifftop lies not a hundred yards in front of you.”

“Oh, you think I was misled by a bad fairy, do you?” returned Richard, in an amused and bantering tone.  “Well, at all events, I have now met with a good one; and may I ask what name she goes by?”

“My name is Trevethick, Sir,” said the damsel, simply.  “I am no angel, but I am going to the place you seek; it is this way, Sir.”

It was evident that his banter had not pleased her.  The same tone that is found agreeable in the town does not always prove welcome in the country.  She motioned with her hand to the southward, and began to walk so fast that Richard could not easily keep pace with her.

“But are there really fairies about here?” inquired he, seriously.  “I am quite a stranger to these parts, and should be glad to learn all I can.”

“Nay, Sir, I can not say; I have myself never seen one, though I know some who have, or say they have.  There are tales of worse than Pixies told about that moor you have come across.  You might have met the Demon Horse that tempts the tired traveler to mount him, and then carries him nobody knows whither; but, for certain, he is never seen again.”