[CHAPTER XVII.]
Blair rode on toward Ilfracombe, his cigar between his lips, his handsome face wearing its best and brightest look. He was, as he would have expressed it, as happy as a sandboy; and the only thing that could have increased his happiness would have been to have had Margaret with him.
It would be an exaggeration to say that he thought of nothing else but her as he rode along; but it is true that she was present in his thoughts nearly all the time, and that as he looked seaward, where the green water lay like an opal in the sun, or inland, where the yellow cornfields glittered like gold across the blue sky, he thought how much she would have admired it, and how her artist soul would revel in its beauty.
After riding some time he saw a couple of men lying by the roadside. They were fishermen from Appleford, who had, perhaps, been to Ilfracombe, and were resting.
"I'm right for Ilfracombe, I suppose?" said Blair.
The men touched their hats.
"Yes, sir, you're right," said one; "but you have come a long way round. You should have cut across the cliff by the narrow lane through Lee."
"Eh?" said Blair, standing in his stirrups and looking about him.
The man got up, and shading his eyes, pointed to the place indicated.
"That's the way; it's but a bit of a lane, but it saves a mile or more."