From where Mrs. Pitt sat she had a splendid view up and down the street, which was then crowded, it being the busiest time of the season. Just below her, up against the piazza, sat an artist, bent eagerly forward toward his easel, and absolutely oblivious of the throngs of people who were noisily passing close by. There were tourists in gay attire, children romping about in their queer shoes with nails on the bottom to prevent slipping, big stalwart men sliding luggage down on sledges, and patient little mules, which struggled up with big trunks fastened to shelf-like saddles over their backs. To this busy scene the bright little dwellings which line the way, add the finishing touch. The roof of one house is on a level with the second-story window of that above it; the vines are luxuriant, climbing sometimes up over the very chimneys, and flower-beds and flower-boxes are everywhere. A holiday, festive air seems universal. "Where can one see such a scene?" mused Mrs. Pitt. "Not in Italy surely, for there the 'picturesque dirt,' as they call it, is so much in evidence. For my part, I prefer the exquisite neatness and cleanliness of Clovelly." Lunch at the New Inn tasted very good,--especially as here the young people first made the acquaintance of the much-praised "Devonshire cream." Served with wild strawberries, or any other fruit, this thick cream is truly delicious, and unlike anything else. The meal itself was partaken of in the Annex, a larger, newer house across the way, but having finished, the party returned to the original hostelry. It is the tiniest house imaginable, and the little rooms are so crowded with furniture, the landlord's collection of fine old china, and knick-knacks of all sorts, that John endangered many valued treasures by his awkward movements. Once, in passing some people in the hall, his elbow struck a small cabinet of blue china, and there would have been a terrible catastrophe had not Mrs. Pitt arrived upon the scene at the opportune moment. "Oh, bother!" exclaimed John, very much irritated, and more ashamed of his clumsiness than he cared to show. "How can a fellow have room to breathe in a bandbox like this! Come along, Philip; I'm going down to talk some more with those sailors." The old fishermen who can no longer follow their loved trade sit sunning themselves comfortably on the doorsteps of their Clovelly homes, gazing dreamily out to sea. When Mrs. Pitt, Barbara, and Betty went to find the boys toward tea-time, they discovered them sitting by a group of these old cronies, who were ensconced upon a bench affording a beautiful view of the lower part of the town, the bay, and the cliffs of the rugged coast. The tide had filled the little harbor, and numerous small boats with copper-colored sails bobbed about on the opal waters; near the Red Lion Inn stood a row of sleepy-looking mules waiting for the start up the street.