"Give me your hand, pet," he said, "and let's get on to the next pile. I am sure we shall find her there." "No, no, Harry. The more I look the more I feel sure it was here we left her." "Well, perhaps it was, little one," he said, looking down into the earnest eyes, "and she has grown tired, and begun to walk back. We shall find her sitting down waiting for us." Cynthia gave him her hand, and they ran for a short distance over the shingle; but it was too rough to go far save at a walk, and then, reaching another of the little wildernesses of masses of rock, the result of a fall from the towering cliffs, they searched about for a few minutes without result, and then walked a little way down towards the sea, so as to command a view back towards the battery and the works at the east end of the town. There was a man tramping along with a shrimping net over his shoulder, an old lady seated on the shingle under an umbrella, a girl with a yellow-covered book perched upon a stone, and about twenty yards out an elderly gentleman with his trousers tucked up, standing in the water reading a newspaper; not a soul besides on that unfrequented part. "Oh, Harry!" gasped Cynthia, who was ready to burst into tears. "Why, you little goose," he said tenderly; "there's nothing to be afraid of. She isn't along here, that's certain." "And yet you say there's nothing to be afraid of," half sobbed Cynthia. "Why, of course not. She hasn't gone back, or we should see her somewhere. We must have passed her. I know she must have gone close up to the cliff, so as to find a shady place. All along here is so much bigger and wilder than any one would think." "She must have gone up on the cliff, Harry." "Well, dear," he said, laughing, "you and Julie are the nearest approach to little angels I ever knew, but even you two have no wings, and I don't think Julie would get up the face of that cliff without." "Oh, pray, Harry, don't talk so, now," she cried; "I'm afraid--I don't know what to think." "Don't be afraid, little one," he said, encouragingly, "we'll find her directly." "Is it possible that any of the cliff has fallen, and crushed her?" said Cynthia, piteously. He started, but spoke the next moment decisively. "No. Such a fall would have made a noise like thunder. Depend upon it she has changed her place, and we shall find her fast asleep: unless the Red Rover, or some other dashing pirate, has landed, and carried her off in his yacht." "Oh, Harry, you make fun of it all," cried Cynthia, with a stamp of her little foot, which crushed a tender, young, and unoffending mussel; "and I feel now quite a chill of horror lest that dreadful man--Oh, look, look, Harry! Who is that?"