“I suppose,” said he, looking in at the window of the room he had just left, and where Hannah, who was waiting-maid as well as cook, except “in the season,” was clearing away the remnants of the repast, “one can get to the castle without a guide?”

“Nay, Sir; you must get the key first, for the man don’t bide at the cottage, except in summer-time, and the gate has got spikes at the top.  Miss Harry has got it somewheres, if you’ll wait a minute.”

Miss Harry herself brought it out to him.  She had changed her attire for what was an even more becoming one than that she had worn before, and her bright brown hair was arranged with greater care, and perhaps with more view to effect.

“The guide has not begun his duties yet, Sir,” she explained, with a smile; “and so we keep the key here.  You can’t fail to find the road; but the precipice-path is a bit awkward in a wind like this, and you must be careful to take the right one; the old ledge was broken in by the storm last month, and has an ugly gap.”

“But why not show me the way yourself, Miss Harry?” pleaded the young fellow.  “You know how easily I lose myself; and if I should come to harm, by taking the wrong turning, you would be sorry, I’m sure.”

“Indeed I should, Sir,” returned the young girl, simply; “and I doubt whether you will find any body else in the village.  This news from the mine has taken them all off, it seems; and you wouldn’t know rock from castle, unless you had one to tell you, they are so alike.”

The fact was that Harry’s conscience smote her for her wish to be of service to this handsome young fellow, since she had just refused to accompany Solomon to Dunloppel, on the score of fatigue.  It was level walking, or nearly so, to the pit-mouth, and it was a climb of many hundreds of feet to the ruin.  Still, she felt no longer tired, if she had done so a while ago, and the stranger might come to harm without a guide.

“But you’re not coming without a bonnet?” exclaimed Richard.

“Nay, Sir; I should come home without one if I went up yonder in such a wind as this,” answered she, laughing; “and I recommend you to fasten on your hat, if you wish to see it again.”

“But you’ll catch cold,” urged Richard.

“We don’t mind air at Gethin, Sir; and this shawl will cover my head, if that’s all.”

It really was Harry Trevethick’s custom to go bareheaded in fine weather about her own home, though, perhaps, the consciousness that she never looked so well in even her Sunday head-gear, as with her own ample tresses for a covering, may have influenced her resolve.  Chignons were unknown at that time, and never had the young man beheld such wealth of gold-tinged locks as that which blew about his fair companion’s brow, and presently streamed out behind her, as they neared the cliffs, and met the full force of that Atlantic breeze.  It blew freshly and shrilly enough up the winding gorge through which