him, it is his voice that gives the ‘_crake_,’ imitating the sound made by John’s heart when it burst; but others say it comes from John himself, down there below the sands.” There was silence for a minute. Even Honoria had grown excited toward the end. “But it was unfair!” she broke out. “It ought to have been the convict-child that was saved.” “If so, I shouldn’t be here,” said George; “and it’s not very nice of you to say it.” “I don’t care. It was unfair; and anyone but a boy”--with scorn--“would see it.” She turned upon the staring Taffy--“I hate your tale; it was horrid.” She repeated it, that evening, as they turned their faces homeward across the heathery moor. Taffy had halted on the top of a hillock to wave good-night to George. For years he remembered the scene--the brown hollow of the hills; the clear evening sky, with the faint purple arch, which is the shadow of the world, climbing higher and higher upon it; and his own shadow stretching back with his heart toward George, who stood fronting the level rays and waved his glittering catch of fish. “What was that you said?” he asked, when at length he tore himself away and caught up with Honoria. “That was a horrid story you told. It spoiled my afternoon, and I’ll trouble you not to tell any more of the sort.” CHAPTER XI. LIZZIE REDEEMS HER DOLL AND HONORIA THROWS A STONE. A broad terrace ran along the southern front of Tredinnis House. It had once been decorated with leaden statues, but of these only the pedestals remained. Honoria, perched on the terraced wall, with her legs dangling, was making imaginary casts with a trout-rod, when she heard footsteps. A child came timidly round the angle of the big house--Lizzie Pezzack. “Hullo! What do you want?” “If you please, miss--” “Well?” “If you please, miss--” “You’ve said that twice.” Lizzie held out a grubby palm with a half-crown in it: “I wants my doll back, if you please, miss.” “But you sold it.” “I didn’t mean to. You took me so sudden.” “I gave you ever so much more than it was worth. Why, I don’t believe it cost you three ha’pence!” “Tuppence,” said Lizzie. “Then you don’t know when you’re well off. Go away.” “’Tisn’t that, miss--” “What is it, then?” Lizzie broke into a flood of tears. Honoria, the younger by a year or so, stood and eyed her scornfully; then turning on her heel marched into the house. She was a just child. She went upstairs to her bedroom, unlocked her wardrobe, and took out the doll, which was clad in blue silk, and reposed in a dog-trough lined with the same material. Honoria had recklessly cut up two handkerchiefs (for underclothing) and her Sunday sash, and had made the garments in secret. They were prodigies of bad needlework. With the face of a Medea she stripped the poor thing, took it in her arms as if to kiss it, but checked herself sternly. She descended to the terrace with the doll in one hand and its original calico smock in the other.