Up the little street of thatched fishermen’s cottages, that ran inland from the stony beach and then curved away under the swelling down, there hurried early one May morning a dark-eyed girl, with a wounded pigeon in her hand. The wings of the bird were fluttering, as if it were in pain; a feather dropped here and there upon the road, and there was blood at its beak. The girl pressed it to her cheek in loving pity, and her loose dark brown hair fell over it, as the morning breeze followed her from the sea. She stopped at a cottage gate, half way up the street, unlatched it with her free hand, passed through the little garden, and ran into the cottage without knocking. No one was in the little room. “Harold!” she cried. “Harold! where are you?” A boy of fifteen, tall and lithe, bonny-looking, and fair-haired, came in through the back door. He wore a blue jersey, and seemed made for a seafaring life. “Why, Molly, it’s not seven o’clock, and we haven’t had breakfast yet. I thought you girls were in bed at this time of day. Hallo! What’s the matter with the pigeon?” He took the bird out of her hand, for Molly, in spite of her fourteen years, had begun to cry, and could not answer his question. He turned the bird over gently and smoothed its feathers. Then he fell to stroking Molly’s hair. “Poor old Molly,” he said soothingly. “Don’t cry. Was it the cat?” Molly sat down, took the pigeon back from him, and dried her eyes on its silky plumage. “No,” she said, still choking a little, “it wasn’t the cat, it was a terrible great bird. Why should he have come at _my_ pigeon, that _you_ gave me, when there were so many others for him? I saw him, as I was dressing, come right down, and just as he was seizing poor Snowdrop I threw my shoe at him and frightened him, and then he let go Snowdrop, and made a swoop into Mrs. Timms’s garden, and carried off another pigeon instead. Oh, the horrible, cruel creature!” Harold gave a long whistle. “It’s the falcon,” he said, “from the red cliffs. I know him, the cruel brute! He’s got his nest there, Molly, and he’s feeding young ones. That’s why it is he comes here now. Never you mind, Molly,” he added, as he saw the pigeon was dead, “I’ll give you another, and what’s more, I’ll have those young falcons to make all safe.”