A Singer from the Sea

y old friend

softly laugh

e I am repeat

e! w

aliant s

m, brav

ons of t

ch Row

why I have wr

hat live in you

lly the aut

nly put

licity of your

me de la

e below. Great cliffs hundreds of feet high guard it, and from the top of them the land rolls 2 away in long ridges, brown and bare. These wild and rocky moors, full of pagan altars, stone

of Bell

vision of the

d hollows, checkered with purple rocks and elder-trees. Narrow footpaths curve in and out and up and down among the fields and farms,

flower peculiar to the locality. And still lower––on the very shingle––are the amphibious-looking cottages of the fishermen. They are surrounded by nets and boats and lobster-

side. But the fishermen see its white houses and terraced gardens and hear the sweet-voiced bells of its old church calling to them when they are far off upon the ocean. And well they know their cottages clustered on the shingle below, and

liff to St. Penfer. If his daughter Denas was coming down it he would hear her footsteps in his heart. And why did she not come? She had been away four hours, and who knew what evil might happen to a girl in four hours? When too late to forbid her visit to St. Penfer, it had suddenly struck hi

elieve in!" he muttered. "I have never known but one woman who can understand reas

ulk into motion. For he was a large man, even among Cornish fishermen, and his feet were in his heavy fishing-boots, and his nature was slow and irresolute until

nt inside. She was putting the kettle on the fire as he entered, and she turned her head to smile upon him. It was a delightful smil

do think the little maid

ohn dear. St. Penfer isn't

ity, and they do say a great scholar, and can speak langwidges; and aw, my dear, if rich and poor do ride togeth

know her place and her right, and she isn't one to be put down below

, my

seeking trouble are very like to fi

certain. I haven

wrong of others instead of themselves!

t we aren't living among Bible

nd Jacob Tenager always looking to be high up in the chapel? And poor Cruffs and Kestal, how they do deny all the week through what they say on Sunday! And I know one quiet, modest Andrew who never grumbles, but is alway content and happy when his brothers are favoured above him.

ree in fresh air and winds and liberty––the physical grace that never comes by the dancing-master. And her print dress and white kerchief and neatly braided hair seemed as much a part of her charm as the thatched roof, the yellow stone-wort, and the dainty little mother of millions creeping over the roof and walls were a part of the pictu

y were baby feet scarce able to stand alone. As she grew older she often begged to go to sea with the fishers, and on warm summer nights 7 she had lain in the boat, and talked to him and his mates, and sung

ay fish!

the gray

oms deep is t

ddock! herr

ass! whate

fish! come p

child's long yellow hair catching the glory of the moonlight, they let her lead them as she would. She did not f

as," he said; "the tide is l

whist poor speed the fishers were once making––toiling and rowing––and the wind contrary, wh

ssed the wind in her teeth. And anon the tide turned, and the wind changed, and there was a lull, and so the nets were well sh

r great ambition. But she had her desire, and for three years she went to the private school at St. Penfer, and among the girls gathered there made many friends. Chief among these was Elizabeth Tresham, the daughter of a gentleman who had bought, with the salvage of a large

that he often came for money, which old Mr. Tresham had sometimes to borrow in St. Penfer for him. And business men noted the fact that his visits were so erratic and frequently so long in duration that it was hardly likely he had regular employment. And if a ma

Phyllis to St. Ives while I am here, Elizabeth," he said one night to his sister. "Phyllis is well enough

u only would marry and settle down to a

I manage to get more pleasure out of a hundred

nd I carry th

care? I do not. I let the men to

r can I. And to be in debt, in

bility to be happy, or for the antiquated notions of such an antiquated town as S

y ninetee

girl––that is such

ine element. Besides which, she loved Roland with all her simple faith and affection. She loved him for his handsome self and his charming ways. She loved him because he had been her mother's idol, and she had promised her mother never to desert Roland. She loved him because he loved her in his own perfectly selfish

isher-girl with her piquant face, her strange haunting voice, and her singular self-possession was a charming study. He made several sketches of her, he set her wild, sweet fisher-s

f Roland asked Denas to go into the garden to gather fruit or flowers, or into the drawing-room to sing her songs to his accompaniments, Elizabeth was faithfully at the side of Denas. She was actuated by a variety of motives. She wished her bro

newspapers, which Elizabeth highly valued and carefully treasured. She had also her full share of that all-pervading spirit of caste which divides English society into innumerable circles, and though she did not dislike the tacit offence she gave to the St. Penfer young ladies by selecting a companion not in their ranks, she was always ready to defend her friendship for De

enelles, remembering Denas, had cheerfully loaned him a hundred pounds. Elizabeth recollected her father's anxiety and his relief and gratitude, and a friend who will open, not his heart or his house, but his purse, is a rare good friend, one not to be lightly wronged or lo

ualification. Denas had all the native independence of her class––the fisher class, who neither sow nor reap, but take their living direct from the hand of God. She was proud of her father, and proud of his

power of Denas to obtain. But Denas never envied her these things. She looked on them as the accidentals of a certain station, and God had not put her in that station. In her own she had the very best of all that belonged to it. And as far as personal adornment went, she was neither vain nor envious. Her dark-blue merino dress and her wide straw hat satisfied her

et as bloss

ong absence. He did not ask himself why he had all in 14 a moment thought of Roland Tresham and felt a shiver of apprehension. He was not accustomed to reason about his feelings, it was so much e

d to light my pipe and saunter up

ou had lost trust in Denas––misdoubting one's own i

is companying with Roland Tresham she oughtn't to do it, and I must tell

"You be such a dear, good, careful father, John," she said, as she tucked in with a caressing movement the long ends of

t and I'll trust after––that's

s pipe in his mouth, turned his face landward

moon was three days old; men die who sicken on that day. Hadn't you

ur days old; he'll have a hard lit

ng to occur which would interfere with Denas visiting Miss Tresham, for these visits were a source of great pleasure to Denas and great pride to herself. And Joan could not believe that there wa

his palm, to put them against his lips. But he looked at his big, hard hands, and then at the flowers, and so, shaking his head, walked on. The blackbird was piping and the missel-thrush singing in one or two of her seven languages, and John felt the spring joy stirring in his own heart to me

and in a moment or two they came suddenly within his vision. Denas was walking a little straighter than usual, and Roland was bending toward her. He was gay, laughing, finely dressed; he was doi

the news? And how is the fishing? I was just

ourself how I be, and the news be

of a place, Penelles. I was ju

it do give us a living, sir; a honest

and, and with a perfectly civil "Good-e

elles; I am go

t, sir. It be getting late