Here the river, shut in on the one side with budding trees to the water’s edge, on the other with bracken and patches of ploughed land to where the cliffs broke sheer away, stretched for some miles without bend or break.  Far ahead a blue bank of woodland closed the view.  Not a sound disturbed the stillness, not a sail broke the placid expanse of water.

But a true Trojan must still be talking.  Presently Caleb resumed.

“’Tes a luvly spot, as you said, sir.  Mr. Moggridge down at the customs—­he’s a poet, as maybe you know—­has written a mint o’ verses about this ’ere place.  ‘Natur’, he says:—­”

     “Natur’ has ’ere assoomed her softest garb;
      ‘Ere would I live an’ die

“—­which I calls a very touchin’ sentiment, an’ like what they says in a nigger song.”

With such conversation Mr. Trotter beguiled the way until they came abreast of a tiny village almost buried in apple trees and elms.  On the opposite bank, a thin column of blue smoke was curling up from among the dense woodland.

Caleb headed the boat for this smoke, ran her nose on the pebbles beneath a low cliff, and stepped out.

“’Ere we are, sir.”

“But I don’t see any house,” said Mr. Fogo, perplexed.

“All in good time, sir,” replied Mr. Trotter, and having fastened up the boat, led the way.

A narrow flight of steps, hewn out of the rock, led up to the little cliff.  At the top, and almost hidden by bushes, stood a low gate.  Thence the path wound for a space between walls of budding hazel, and at its end quite unexpectedly a tiny cottage burst upon Mr. Fogo’s view.

Little dreaming that the owner of Kit’s House could live in such humility, he was considerably surprised when Caleb stepped up and struck a rousing knock upon the door.

It was opened by a comely girl with a white apron pinned before her neat stuff gown, and a face as fresh and healthful as a spring day.

“Why, Caleb,” she cried, “who would have thought it?  Come inside; you’re as welcome as flowers in May.”

“And you,” replied Caleb gallantly, “are a-lookin’ so sweet as blossom.  Here’s a gentlem’n come to call upon ’ee, my dear.  An’ how’s Peter an’ Paul?  Brave, I hopes.”

“Both, thank you, Caleb,” said the maiden, curtseying without embarrassment to Mr. Fogo.  “Won’t you come in, sir?”

It was noticeable that Mr. Fogo at this point became very nervous, but he crossed the threshold in answer to this invitation.  Mr. Trotter followed.

The fragrant smoke of a wood fire filled the room in which Mr. Fogo found himself.  It was a rude kitchen, with white limeash floor, and for ceiling, a few whitewashed beams and the planching of the bedroom above.  All was scrupulously clean.  In the flickering obscurity of the chimney depended a line of black pot-hooks and hangers; a trivet and a pair of bellows furnished the hearth; from the capacious