The miner came upon them suddenly—­footsteps make no sound among the towans; a young man in a suit stained orange-tawny, with a tallow candle stuck with a lump of clay in the brim of his hat, and a striped tulip stuck in another lump of clay at the back and nodding.

“Good-morning, miss.  You’ve come a day behind the fair.”

“Is the Maying over?” Honoria asked.

“Iss, fay.  I’ve just been home to shift myself.”

He walked along with them and told them all about it in the friendliest manner.  It had been a grand Maying—­all the boys and girls in the parish—­with the hal-an-tow, of course—­such dancing!  Fine and tired some of the maids must be—­he wouldn’t give much for the work they’d do to-day.  Two May mornings in one year would make a grass-captain mad, as the saying was.  But there—­’twas a poor spirit that never rejoiced.

“Which do you belong to?” Taffy nodded toward the mine-chimneys on the sky-line high on their left, which hid the sea, though it lay less than half a mile away and the roar of it was in their ears—­just such a roar as the train makes when rushing through a tunnel.

“Bless you, I’m a tinner.  I belong to Wheal Gooniver, up the valley.  Wheal Vlo there, ’pon the cliff, he’s lead.  And the next to him, Wheal Penhale, he’s iron.  I came a bit out of my way with you for company.”

Soon after parting from him they crossed the valley-stream (Taffy had to wade it), and here they happened on a dozen tall girls at work “spalling” the tin-ore, but not busy.  The most of them leaned on their hammers or stood with hands on hips, their laughter drowning the thud, thud of the engine-house and the rattle of the stamps up the valley.  And the cause of it all seemed to be a smaller girl who stood by with a basket in her arms.

“Here you be, Lizzie!” cried one.  “Here’s a young lady and gentleman coming with money in their pockets.”

Lizzie turned.  She was a child of fourteen, perhaps; brown skinned, with shy, wild eyes.  Her stockings were torn, her ragged clothes decorated with limp bunches of bluebells, and her neck and wrists with twisted daisy chains.  She skipped up to Honoria and held out a basket.  Within it, in a bed of fern, lay a May-doll among a few birds’ eggs—­a poor wooden thing in a single garment of pink calico.

“Give me something for my doll, miss!” she begged.

“Aw, that’s too tame,” one of the girls called out, and pitched her voice to the true beggar’s whine:  “Spare a copper!  My only child, dear kind lady, and its only father broke his tender neck in a blasting accident, and left me twelve to maintain!”

All the girls began laughing again.  Honoria did not laugh.  She was feeling in her pocket.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Lizzie Pezzack.  My father tends the lighthouse.  Give me something for my doll, miss!”

Honoria held out a half-crown piece.