The worry was very close at hand, for directly after balancing themselves on the rough rocks, and leaping from mass to mass, came two bright-looking girls of about twenty, their faces flushed by exercise, and more than slightly tanned by the strong air that blows health-laden from the Atlantic. As often happens in real life as well as in fiction, the companions were dark and fair; and as they came laughing and talking, full of animation, looking a couple of as bonny-looking English maidens as the West Country could produce, their aspect warranted, in reply to the greetings of "Ah, Uncle Luke!" "Ah, Mr Vine!" something a little more courteous than-- "Well, Nuisance?" addressed with a short nod to the dark girl in white serge, and "Do, Madelaine?" to the fair girl in blue. The gruffness of the greeting seemed to be taken as a matter of course, for the girls seated themselves directly on convenient masses of rock, and busied themselves in the governance of sundry errant strands of hair which were playing in the breeze. The elderly fisher watched them furtively, and his sour face seemed a little less grim, and as if there was something after all pleasant to look upon in the bright youthful countenances before him. "Well, uncle, how many fish?" said the dark girl. "Bah! and don't chatter, or I shall get none at all. How's dad?" "Quite well. He's out here somewhere." "Dabbling?" "Yes." The girl took off her soft yachting cap, and fanned her face; then ceased and half closing her eyes and throwing back her head, let her red lips part slightly as she breathed in full draughts of the soft western breeze. "If he ever gives her a moment's pain," said the old man to himself as he jerked a look up at the mining works, "I'll kill him." Then, turning sharply to the fair girl, he said aloud:--"Well, Madelaine, how's the _bon pere_?" "Quite well and very busy seeing to the lading of the _Corunna_," said the girl with animation. "Humph! Old stupid. Worrying himself to death money grubbing. Here, Louie, when's that boy going back to his place?" "To-morrow, uncle." "Good job too. What did he want with a holiday? Never did a day's work in his life. Here! Hold her, Louie. She's going to peck," he added in mock alarm, and with a cynical sneering laugh, as he saw his niece's companion colour slightly, and compress her lips. "Well, it's too bad of you, uncle. You are always finding fault about Harry." "Say Henri, pray, my child, and with a good strong French accent," cried the old man with mock remonstrance. "What would Aunt Marguerite say?" "Aunt Margaret isn't here, uncle," cried the girl merrily; "and it's of no use for you to grumble and say sour things, because we know you by heart, and we don't believe in you a bit." "No," said the fisherman grimly, "only hate me like poison, for a sour old crab. Never gave me a kiss when you came."