One great pleasure they enjoyed together was bathing. The Homestead

possessed a little cove of its own under the rocks, where there was

a bathing-house, and full perfection of arrangement for young ladies'

aquatic enjoyment, in safety and absolute privacy. Rachel's vigorous

strength and health had been greatly promoted by her familiarity with

salt water, and Bessie was in ecstasies at the naiad performances they

shared together on the smooth bit of sandy shore, where they dabbled and

floated fearlessly. One morning, when they had been down very early to

be beforehand with the tide, which put a stop to their enjoyment long

before the breakfast hour, Bessie asked if they could not profit

by their leisure to climb round the edge of the cliff's instead of

returning by the direct path, and Rachel agreed, with the greater

pleasure, that it was an enterprise she had seldom performed.

Very beautiful, though adventurous, was the walk--now on the brow of the

steep cliff, looking down on the water or on little bays of shingle,

now through bits of thicket that held out brambles to entangle the long

tresses streaming on their shoulders; always in the brisk morning air,

that filled them with strength and spirit, laughing, joking, calling

to one another and to Conrade's little dog, that, like every other

creature, had attached itself to Bessie, and had followed her from

Myrtlewood that morning, to the vexation of Rachel, who had no love for

dogs in their early youth.

They were beyond the grounds of the Homestead, but had to go a little

further to get into the path, when they paused above a sort of dip or

amphitheatre of rock around a little bay, whilst Rachel began telling

of the smugglers' traditions that haunted the place--how much brandy and

silk had there been landed in the time of the great French war, and how

once, when hard pressed, a party of smugglers, taking a short cut in

the moonlight midnight across the Homestead gardens, had encountered an

escaped Guinea-pig, and no doubt taking it for the very rat without a

tail, in whose person Macbeth's witch was to do, and to do, and to do,

had been nearly scared out of their wits.

Her story was cut short by a cry of distress from the dog, and looking

down, they perceived that the poor fellow had been creeping about the

rocks, and had descended to the little cove, whence he was incapable

of climbing up again. They called encouragingly, and pretended to move

away, but he only moaned more despairingly, and leapt in vain.

"He has hurt his foot!" exclaimed Rachel; "I must go down after him.

Yes, Don, yes, poor fellow, I'm coming."

"My dear Curtia, don't leap into the gulf!"

"Oh, it's no great height, and the tide will soon fill up this place."




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