After the bathing it is the fashion to meet again at the Casino and take lunch—­sometimes through a straw—­and after dinner everybody goes for a stroll on the cliffs.  This is a noble sea-promenade; with its handsome villas and magnificent rocks, a fair rival to Newport.  The walk, as usually taken, is two or three miles along the bold, rocky shore, but an ambitious pedestrian may continue it to the light on Point Judith.  Nowhere on this coast are the rocks more imposing, and nowhere do they offer so many studies in color.  The visitor’s curiosity is excited by a massive granite tower which rises out of a mass of tangled woods planted on the crest of the hill, and his curiosity is not satisfied on nearer inspection, when he makes his way into this thick and gloomy forest, and finds a granite cottage near the tower, and the signs of neglect and wildness that might mark the home of a recluse.  What is the object of this noble tower?  If it was intended to adorn the landscape, why was it ruined by piercing it irregularly with square windows like those of a factory?

One has to hold himself back from being drawn into the history and romance of this Narragansett shore.  Down below the bathing beach is the pretentious wooden pile called Canonchet, that already wears the air of tragedy.  And here, at this end, is the mysterious tower, and an ugly unfinished dwelling-house of granite, with the legend “Druid’s Dream” carved over the entrance door; and farther inland, in a sandy and shrubby landscape, is Kendall Green, a private cemetery, with its granite monument, surrounded by heavy granite posts, every other one of which is hollowed in the top as a receptacle for food for birds.  And one reads there these inscriptions:  “Whatever their mode of faith, or creed, who feed the wandering birds, will themselves be fed.”  “Who helps the helpless, Heaven will help.”  This inland region, now apparently deserted and neglected, was once the seat of colonial aristocracy, who exercised a princely hospitality on their great plantations, exchanged visits and ran horses with the planters of Virginia and the Carolinas, and were known as far as Kentucky, and perhaps best known for their breed of Narragansett pacers.  But let us get back to the shore.

In wandering along the cliff path in the afternoon, Irene and Mr. King were separated from the others, and unconsciously extended their stroll, looking for a comfortable seat in the rocks.  The day was perfect.  The sky had only a few fleecy, high-sailing clouds, and the great expanse of sea sparkled under the hectoring of a light breeze.  The atmosphere was not too clear on the horizon for dreamy effects; all the headlands were softened and tinged with opalescent colors.  As the light struck them, the sails which enlivened the scene were either dark spots or shining silver sheets on the delicate blue.  At one spot on this shore rises a vast mass of detached rock, separated at low tide from the shore by irregular bowlders and