Then they passed through the old house, which was built on a little ness or headland that jutted beyond the level of the shore-line, and across which the wind swept and raved all the winter long, driving the great waves in cease-less thunder against the sandy cliffs. It was a desolate spot that the gray and massive house, of which the roof was secured by huge blocks of rock, looked out upon, nude of vegetation, save for rank, rush-like grass and plants of sea-holly. In front was the great ocean, rushing in continually upon the sandy bulwarks, and with but few ships to break its loneliness. To the left, as far as the eye could reach ran a line of cliff, out of which the waves had taken huge mouthfuls, till it was as full of gaps as an old crone’s jaw. Behind this stretched mile upon mile of desolate-looking land, covered for the most part with ling and heath, and cut up with dikes, whence the water was pumped by means of windmills, that gave a Dutch appearance to the landscape. “Look,” said Dorothy, pointing to a small white house about a mile and a half away up the shore-line, “that is the lock-house where the great sluice-gates are, and beyond that is the dreadful quicksand in which a whole army was once swallowed up, like the Egyptians in the Red Sea.” “My word!” said Ernest, much interested; “and, I say, did my uncle build this house?” “You silly boy! why, it has been built for hundreds of years. Somebody of the name of Dum built it, and that is why it is called Dum’s Ness; at least I suppose so. There is an old chart that Reginald has, which was made in the time of Henry VII., and it is marked as Dum’s Ness there, so Dum must have lived before then. Look,” she went on, as, turning to the right, they rounded the old house and reached the road which ran along the top of the cliff, “there are the ruins of Titheburgh Abbey;” and she pointed to the remains of an enormous church with a still perfect tower, that stood within a few hundred yards of them, almost upon the edge of the cliff. “Why don’t they build it up again?” asked Ernest. Dorothy shook her head. “Because in a few years the sea will swallow it. Nearly all the graveyard has gone already. It is the same with Kesterwick, where we are going. Kesterwick was a great town once. The kings of East Anglia made it their capital, and a bishop lived there. And after that it was a great port, with thousands upon thousands of inhabitants. But the sea came on and on and choked up the harbour, and washed away the cliffs, and they could not keep it out, and now Kesterwick is nothing but a little village with one fine old church left. The real Kesterwick lies there, under the sea. If you walk along the beach after a great gale, you will find hundreds of bricks and tiles washed from the houses that are going to pieces down in the deep water. Just fancy, on one Sunday afternoon, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, three of the parish churches were washed over the cliff into the sea!”