As Geoffrey remarked, she was very handsome, but it was a wild, rugged, half-savage kind of beauty. Dark-eyed, brown-skinned, with a ruddy flush which showed how little she sheltered from the weather, while her abundant black hair was carelessly twisted up, and hung down in a massive knot between her shoulders. Her dress was of the commonest cotton, and slovenly made, a short print gown being tied round her waist, over a bright-coloured serge petticoat, while in one hand she held a print hood. But, in spite of her ungraceful clothing, Geoffrey could see that she was lithe, strong, and active, and there was no little natural grace in the undulations of her unfettered form, as she hurried up to meet him. "Come here and buy some sweets," she said, in a voice as full of command as entreaty, and as she looked him boldly yet curiously in the face, he saw that her lips were red and full, over large but beautifully white teeth. "Sweets? Nonsense, my lass. I don't eat sweets. What cove is this?" "Gwennas," said the girl. "Come down and buy some sweets. Here's the money." Geoffrey stared, as the girl held out a penny in her large, well-shaped hand. "Poor lass! A love case for a sovereign. She's crazy," said Geoffrey to himself, and, changing his manner, he took the coin from the girl's hand, receiving, at the same time, a smile for reward. "What's your name, my lass?" he said aloud. "Bessie--Elizabeth Prawle," said the girl, shortly. "You're a stranger." "Yes," he said, looking at her sidewise. "Do they sell sweets here?" "Yes," said the girl, sharply. "And you are very fond of them, eh?" They were going side by side towards the cottage, when the girl faced round, looked at him in a puzzled way for a moment, and then laughed merrily. "They are not for me," she said, sharply, as they reached the rough rocky platform in front of the cottage. "Here, father, this gentleman is going to buy some sweets." "Is he? Oh!" This was uttered in a low, hoarse growl, by a strongly-built, rugged fisher-looking man, in a blue Jersey, and very thick flannel trousers, braced up right over his chest. He wore no hat, but a shaggy crop of grizzled hair shaded his weather-beaten, inflamed face, as he sat on a block of granite, as rugged as himself, overhauling a long fishing-line, whose hooks he was sticking in pieces of blackened cork. He looked up for a moment frowningly at the visitor, with a pair of dark piercing eyes, drew a great gnarled hand across his mouth to wipe away the tobacco-juice, lowered his eyes, got up, stooped, and displayed an enormous patch upon his trousers, reseated himself, and went on with his work.