"'Tes a luvly spot, as you said, sir. Mr. Moggridge down at the
customs--he's a poet, as maybe you know--has written a mint o' verses
about this 'ere place. 'Natur', he says:--"
"Natur' has 'ere assoomed her softest garb;
'Ere would I live an' die
"--which I calls a very touchin' sentiment, an' like what they says
in a nigger song."
With such conversation Mr. Trotter beguiled the way until they came
abreast of a tiny village almost buried in apple trees and elms.
On the opposite bank, a thin column of blue smoke was curling up from
among the dense woodland.
Caleb headed the boat for this smoke, ran her nose on the pebbles
beneath a low cliff, and stepped out.
"'Ere we are, sir."
"But I don't see any house," said Mr. Fogo, perplexed.
"All in good time, sir," replied Mr. Trotter, and having fastened up
the boat, led the way.
A narrow flight of steps, hewn out of the rock, led up to the little
cliff. At the top, and almost hidden by bushes, stood a low gate.
Thence the path wound for a space between walls of budding hazel, and
at its end quite unexpectedly a tiny cottage burst upon Mr. Fogo's
view.
Little dreaming that the owner of Kit's House could live in such
humility, he was considerably surprised when Caleb stepped up and
struck a rousing knock upon the door.
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