Roger appeared with a plump stubborn Welsh pony, attached to a funny little cart which he gayly informed them was a "gingle." Neither Edith nor Estelle, who were familiar with the term as used in Cornwall, thought it odd but Roger considered it most absurd.
Even the short legs of a tiny pony could cover the ground more rapidly than the walking party, and when the pedestrians reached their destination, no sign of Win, his mother, pony or gingle was visible.
"Oh, what a wonderful view!" exclaimed Estelle stopping short.
Before them lay Corbiére lighthouse, built on a bold rock, at flood tide an island, but at this hour approachable from the mainland by a causeway. In the foreground stretched an expanse of jagged red reefs and shining pools with a single martello tower rising in dignified grandeur. At the right lay a hill, its summit crowned by one stone cottage with a thatched roof, and down the hill a narrow road wandered to disappear in a cleft between two gigantic red granite boulders sprinkled with glittering quartz and partly covered with gray and bright orange lichens. Green grass and turquoise blue sea with a single white sail dipping to the horizon completed the color scheme. Near at hand hovered several of the sea-crows, corbiéres, which have given the point its name.
Estelle's soft eyes grew wide and a pretty pink flush came into her usually pale cheeks as she gazed into the distance. Roger and the girls were looking for the rest of the party.
The thatched cottage seemed utterly without life, windows blank and no sign of any domestic proceedings.
"It must be deserted," said Edith as they strolled on.
"Here's a shed with something black in it," said Roger. "I can just see its head. It's a goat."
"It's a black stocking hung to dry," declared Edith.
"Stocking, nothing," replied Roger. "I know it's a goat."