On they went, Wesley marvelling how it was that men who should have known every inch of the way blindfold, having been on it almost daily all their lives, could be so baffled by a mist. To be sure Mr. Hartwell had forsaken the track at one place, but was it likely that he had got upon a different one when he had made his detour to cut off a mile of their journey. On they walked, however, their party numbering fourteen men, and then all of a sudden the voice of the sea came upon them, and at the same moment they almost stepped over the steep brink of a little chasm. “What is this?” cried Hartwell. “As I live'tis Gosney hollow, and we are scarcely half a mile from my house! We have walked a good mile back on our steps.” “Did not I tell you how I followed the ewe?” said the shepherd. “'Tis for all the world the same tale. Sore baffling thing is a sea-mist.” “The valley will be full o' lost men and women this day,” remarked the old man. There is no condition of life so favourable to the growth of despondency as that which prevails in a fog. The most sanguine are filled with despair when they find that their own senses, to which they have trusted for guidance and protection, are defeated. The wanderers on this Sunday morning stood draped by the fog, feeling a sense of defeat. No one made a suggestion. Everyone seemed to feel that it would be useless to make the attempt to proceed to the crags where the preaching was to be held. “Think you, Mr. Wesley, that this state of weather is the work of the Fiend himself?” asked the talkative old man. “I know 'tis a busy question with professing Christians, as well as honest Churchmen--this one that pertains to the weather. Stands to reason, for say I have a turnip crop coming on and so holds out for a wet month or two, while a neighbour may look for sunshine to ripen his grain. Now if so be that the days are shiny my turnips get the rot, and who is to blame a weak man for saying that the Foul Fiend had a hand in prolonging the shine; but what saith my neighbour?” “Hither comes another covey of wandering partridges,” said one of the first party, as the sound of voices near at hand was heard. “Now, for myself, I hold that 'tis scriptural natural to say that aught in the matter that pertains to the smoke of the Pit is the Devil's own work, and if such a fog as this comes not straight out the main flue of----” The old man's fluency was interrupted by the arrival of the new party, Nelly Polwhele and her father. “You are just setting out for the preaching, I suppose; so we are not so late as we feared,” cried the girl. “Still, though we shall certainly not be late for the preaching, however far behind we may be, we would do well to haste.” Wesley surely felt less despondent at the cheery greeting of the girl. He laughed, saying: “'Tis all very well to cry 'Haste,' child; know that it Has taken us a whole hour to get so far.”