"No, Sir; that's the parson's. Nobody can get flowers to grow as he does. The next house at the top of the hill is ours."
"Why, I thought that would be the inn!" exclaimed Richard, looking at the little white-washed house, with its sign-board, or what seemed to be such, swinging in the rising breeze.
"It is the inn," said his companion, quietly, but not without a roguish smile. "Father keeps the Gethin Castle, although he has many other trades."
"And is that he, at the door yonder?" inquired Richard, pointing to a tall, thick-set man of middle age, who was standing beneath the little portico, with a pipe in his mouth.
"No, Sir, that is not father," replied the girl, with sudden gravity; "that is Solomon Coe."
CHAPTER XII.
A PERILOUS CLIMB.
"Is father in?" inquired the young girl of Solomon, as he stood in the doorway, without moving aside to let Richard pass into the house.
"No, he is not," returned the person addressed, his keen blue eye fixed suspiciously on the stranger. "As you were so long on your errand, he gave up his lock-work, and has gone off to the pit. He said he had never known you loiter so."
"I did not loiter at all," returned the maiden, indignantly; "if it had not been for the fog, I should have been home an hour ago; but one can't walk through wool as if it were air. You had the fog here yourselves, hadn't ye?"