When they had followed the footpath for some distance, and had gained the greensward on the top of the cliffs, the young man threw himself upon the grass, and invited Matt to do the same. It was very pleasant there, soothing both to the eye and to the mind. The cliff was covered—somewhat sparsely, it is true—with stunted grass, and just below on their right lay the ocean, calm as any mill-pond, but sighing softly as the water kissed the rocks and flowed back again with rhythmic throbs. On their left lay the sand-hills, glittering like dusty gold in the sun rays, while just before and below them was the village.
“Do you see that house standing all by itself, close to shore?” said Matt, pointing to the cottage where she lived; “that belongs to William Jones—and look ye now, there be William Jones on the rocks!”
Looking down, Brinkley beheld a figure moving along the rocks, just where the water touched the edge.
“Very lazy of William Jones,” he said. “Why isn’t he at work?”
“At work?”
“Yes; tilling the fields or fishing. By the way, I forgot to ask you, is he a fisherman?”
“No, he ain’t,” said Matt “He’s a wrecker, he is!”
“A what?” exclaimed Brinkley.
“A wrecker,” continued Matt, as if wrecking was the most natural occupation in the world.
Brinkley looked, at her, imagining that she must be practising some wild joke. He had certainly heard of wreckers, but he had always believed that they were a species of humanity which had belonged to past centuries, and were now as extinct as a mammoth. But the girl evidently meant what she said, and thought there was nothing extraordinary in the statement.