for three days a thick sea fog had overhung the coast, and the village and harbour of garth had been swathed from all sight in its grey folds.

it happened that on the afternoon of the third day charity borlase set out from her mother's cottage and made her way towards the harbour. ever since her sweetheart poole had been carried off to bodmin gaol again, charity had found her daily life very difficult to bear. there were plenty of other fisher lads minded to console her, their offers backed by her mother's patronage; but charity was not a person who could easily change her affections. she kept as much as possible out of sight of the quay with its chaffing, gossiping groups. but there were times when indoor life seemed to be unbearable, and on those occasions she would take her restless unhappiness for company, and seeking the edge of the sea try to find the comfort there that was denied her in her home.

although the mist was thick, charity was seaman enough to know that it would soon be lifting, and taking her cloak she went quietly down towards the village. then, acting on an idle fancy, she turned to her brother's boat that was moored close to the cottage, and began to row herself across the water to polrennan, the little group of cottages that faced the more important village of garth.

as she sculled the boat across, bearing upstream a little against the eddying tide, the fisher girl's eyes wandered up the estuary. in the mist she fancied she saw farther up the narrowing creek, on the polrennanside, a slight figure wrapped in a hood and cloak, walking rapidly towards the river mouth. standing in the stern, working her oar easily, charity peered through the mist which was already rising and falling a little in the slight easterly breeze. again came the glimpse of the shrouded figure, more easily seen this time, and the watcher nodded grimly as she recognised the trotting gait. she made a swift calculation; realised that if she drove her boat in straight to the shore she would run into the arms, so to speak, of the lonely walker. charity quietly slipped down to the thwart, took a second oar, and noiselessly rowed upstream. she preferred to land higher up and be at liberty to watch unseen. that so far she herself was unseen she was fairly confident. only some one as far-sighted as a sailor and, moreover, bred to the half-lights of the sea mists, could have descried her little boat from the farther bank.

as charity rowed on, her face wore a scornful expression that gave way to a firm intentness of purpose. although more educated than many of her class, curiosity and superstition had a large place in her mind. but more than curiosity impelled charity to the course she now took. no one could live in garth and not know the stories that ran to and fro concerning 'mademoiselle,' who was disliked partly for her nationality and partly for herself. charity, loyal and devoted to the admiral and to her beloved mistress marion, and a degree or two removed from her kind, was perhaps the only woman in the village who had refused to share the gossip of the quay. but since the hurried departure of victoire, for whom the fisher girl had a kind of superstitious dislike, even charity had thought a good deal of the inmates of the house over the brow of the hill.

victoire herself had told mrs. borlase, who was occasionally pressed into service in times of domestic stress at garth house, that her old mother in brittany had been suddenly found very ailing (all this with victoire's handkerchief to her eyes); and victoire, seized with contrition on realising that she had not seen her parent for ten years or so, had obtained permission from that kindest of all gentlemen, monsieur the admiral, to seek the couch of the sufferer and comfort her declining hours.

'i should think,' said charity, when her mother had told this sad story, ''tis more likely than not the old lady have some gold under her bed.'

'shame, charity!' cried her mother (she was eating a piece of pie fresh from victoire's hands). 'do 'ee go and pray for a kinder heart.'

'how's her going across?' asked charity.

'why, there's her uncle yonder to plymouth who sent her word, awaiting for un. a french sailor un be.'

'queer they let un land,' mused charity.

'and how so shouldn't un? and bearing a letter for the admiral himself? a black heart you'm getting, my maid, and a black life you'll have. a'd have more pride nor letting yonder wastrel down to bodmin lie in my thoughts, and honest men like——'

'now, mother,' said charity, her eyes blazing, 'will 'ee be quiet now, mother? no word of that will i hear.'

all this, and more, reverted to charity's mind as she rowed up the stream, keeping her eye on the blurred figure every now and then revealed in the mist. at a little shingly beach she sprang ashore and moored her boat unseen.

if there was anything in the tales of the valley, mademoiselle elise would bear over the shoulder of the hill at the river mouth, out of sight, as she evidently thought, among the bushes, and drop into a gully a couple of miles to the east.

just what she did in 'haunted cove' no one rightly knew, though folk failed not to hint. it was a foul spot, only fit for landing a boat in quiet weather. there were superstitious tales abroad concerning that creek, and although curious fishermen had watched a strange boat, in the fitful moonlight, make for the rocky mouth, and others had seen the french girl, or her woman, creep into the cove, nothing would tempt them into its wrack-strewn caverns. 'the devil had made his bed there,' they said, 'and 'twas best shunned.' as for elise, only the love and duty they bore for the admiral had kept them from denouncing her as a person not untouched by the dark powers. for those were days when anything the unlettered country folk failed to understand was put down to witchcraft or sorcery.

charity set herself another course than that taken by the french girl, a hard road, only possible for strong limbs and a stout heart. she knew that with good fortune she would arrive at a furze-grown bank hard over the creek before elise could have reached it from her own side.

only when her journey was well afoot did charity realise that she was acting against all the superstitions of garth. but having set herself to it, she went on. moreover, charity could read and write; and it happened that her little bible was in her pocket.

'i bean't afeared,' she said stoutly to herself, fingering the holy book. 'once and for all i'll be knowing. for mistress marion's sake 'tis only right some one should be sure.'

kind-hearted jack had given her the little bible, and talked of the day when they would stand together before the parson; and charity, thus drawn to remembering happier days, became sorrowful again, and forgot for the moment the object of her walk.

she climbed the hill, and crossing a little copse of gnarled oaks, made for a gap in the hedge that gave on to the main riding track leading from the heights beyond down to polrennan beach. she was scarcely through the gap before she heard the 'tlot-tlot' of a horse. the rider seemed to be making inland, climbing the slope from the waterside. fearful of she knew not what, charity shrank back into the hedge and would have regained the shelter of the wood; but it was too late. horse and rider loomed up in the mist and a ringing voice hailed her.

'charity! is that you, charity?'

'why, master roger,' cried charity, the colour flushing her face in the relief she felt. 'good afternoon to you, sir.'

any one else would have replied, in the custom of the village folk: 'where be gooin'?' and for a moment charity's heart was in her mouth. then she remembered that to ask such direct questions was not the way of the quality.

''tis rising, i think,' said roger, idly noting the girl's confusion, and setting it down in his chivalrous way to maidenly shyness. 'and time, too, after three days.'

'wind's to the east, sir,' replied the girl. 'i thought to-day her'd rise.'

having dealt with the weather, roger turned to personal affairs. 'how are you getting on, charity?' he asked kindly, keeping his horse at a walk.

not since marion's departure had any sympathy been meted out to the forlorn girl, and tears rose to her eyes. 'why, sir,' she stammered, 'so well as may be.'

noting her downcast look, roger beat about in his mind for something to say. his dark eyes rested very gently on the bowed head, but no words came to his aid.

'well,' he said abruptly, gathering his reins,' i must be off. i'm going across to farmer penrose, who declares he has got some straying cattle of mine. good day to you, charity.'

the girl dropped a curtsey in silence as the horse moved on. then with a sudden movement roger wheeled round.

'keep a cheerful heart, if you can,' he said abruptly. 'there's still a great hope that the lad will be freed. the admiral is using all his influence with the governor yonder.' and without waiting for a reply roger turned and broke into a canter. 'poor little maid!' he mused. ''tis hard fortune for her.'

he rode on, keeping to the track, and presently, as the way opened out on to the rough headland, he cast a longing eye towards the channel. a golden light was breaking through the mist. somewhere beyond that haze the afternoon was bright and sunny, the sea rocking the boats in her tranquil embrace. roger never allowed a chance of riding by the sea to escape him; but after a minute's thought he decided to bear on in his present course and return by the edge of the cliffs when the mist would in all probability be cleared away. to ride round the head of 'haunted cove'—he smiled at the words—in a mist, was to endanger the safe-going of his horse and perhaps his own life. more than one rash horseman, riding by night close in over the cliffs, had fallen foul of the boulders and overgrown chasms of the gully mouth, and paid with his life the price of his folly.

meanwhile charity kept on her way. somewhere round the shoulder of the hill the french girl was bearing towards her mysterious journey's end. charity set herself to the stiff climb with all good will, and succeeded in reaching the head of the creek, and completely hiding herself among the furze bushes that overgrew it, before the slight figure came round the corner of the headland.

wrapped in her cloak charity lay motionless on her rough couch. the shrubs, dense with moisture, freely besprinkled her, but she paid no heed. presently the french girl came in sight. charity smiled at her gait, so unlike the swinging tread of the country-born. when the tired-looking walker was for a few minutes hidden from sight behind an outstanding group of rocks that barred her view, charity took the occasion to bend well over the dangerous declivity and look searchingly into the creek below. what she saw made her hastily reconsider her position.

she was too far away up there; she wanted to be able to hear as well as see, and, as she did not understand french, not until this moment had charity thought hearing would have been of any avail. but that man sitting down there on a rock gazing out to sea was no frenchman. not a dozen miles away had he been born, and born with a crookedness of mind that had spoilt the lives of others as well as his own. he had betrayed his fellow smugglers to authority once too often, and been hounded from the parish, with a rope's end for a prize if ever he returned. folk said he had gone to the islands, and there continued his fast-and-loose game between the french and the english.

for all her sense of horror at the idea of admiral penrock's ward having dealings with such a person, charity could but pay the man a tribute for his courage in seeking the cove. then, working out the price his bravery must mean to the young lady now coming to the creek, charity frowned and shook her head again. much, much gold must have been offered that renegade to enter the neighbourhood of garth; and why?

the man down there, watching alternately the headland path and the sea, now revealing shining lines in the mist, was unaware of the figure creeping from bush to bush down the cliff with the skill of one who had often had nothing but seagulls' eggs between herself and hunger. he rose as elise stepped on to the shingly beach, and together the two passed to the mouth of the outer cavern. on a ledge just above that mouth crouched charity borlase. the sound of the voices rose clearly to her ears.

an hour passed. elise, her face wearing the migraine look marion would have understood, was pale and harassed as at last she rose and handed to the man a bag that jingled in his fingers. the last of their words as they stepped down to the beach just failed to reach the ears of charity. she strained lower to catch the sound, and one branch of the bush she was holding snapped and fell.

the speakers looked up in a startled way, and charity, forgetting for the moment her screen of bushes, feared she was undone. holding her breath, she watched the eyes searching the cliff. to her relief, they went beyond her perch and rested. the two down there stood rooted to the spot. charity, in growing wonder, twisted herself noiselessly round and discovered, standing on the rocks at the top of the creek, riding-crop in hand, roger trevannion. charity was as securely hidden from his sight as from that of the others. she waited in a frightened apprehension. but roger said no word. with a grim sort of smile he lifted his hat to mademoiselle elise and strode away.

charity peered down again. the man was looking at his companion with a sullen, craven air, not without a gleam of malicious triumph; here was an added danger which meant more gold. but the look of fury and hatred on the girl's face made honest charity's heart grow chill. she heard the words: 'he shall pay for this!' followed by others beyond her ken.

five minutes afterwards elise turned homewards. not until the sailor had launched his boat, and hugging the land closely, sailed out of sight, did charity rise, stiff and cramped, and climb the headland again.

that night she sat up long in her little attic room, and to the tune of the snores of her mother and brothers she wrote the longest letter it had ever fallen to her lot to indite. the task was a burden compared with which the climbing of the cliffs had been a baby's play. the dawn crept into her windows as she finished it, and not thinking it worth while then to sleep, she stole downstairs, kindled the fire, set the kettle on the crook and crept out of the cottage. she was going to test the loyalty of old peter up at garth house, to post her letter to mistress marion herself, and swear on her little bible that he would say a word to none.