"What a dreadful pit," said Ruby, clinging to Mona's skirts in the wind. They continued their walk until they came to a steep path that led down to a little bay. Then they paused, and looked back, around, and beneath. Overhead were the drifting black clouds, heavy, wide, and low. Behind was the Horse Hill, purple to the summit with gorse. To the north was the Castle Island, with its Fennella's Tower against the sky, and the black rocks, fringed at the water's edge with white spray. Beneath was the narrow covelet cleft out of the hillside, and apparently accessible only from the sea. In front was the ocean, whose moan came up to them mingled with the shrill cry of the long-necked birds that labored midway in the burdened air.
"What is the name of that pretty bay?" asked the child. "Poolvash," answered Mona.
"And what does it mean?" asked the little one.
"The Bay of Death," said Mona; "that's what they used to call it long ago, but they call it the Lockjaw now."
"And what does that mean?" asked Ruby again, with a child's tireless curiosity.
"It means, I suppose, that the tide comes up into it, and then no one can get either in or out."
"Oh, what a pity! Look at the lovely shells in the shingle," said Ruby.
Just then a step was heard on the path below, and in a moment Bill Kisseck came up beside them. He looked suspiciously at Mona and passed without a word.
"That gel of Kinvig's is sniffin' round," he said to his wife when he reached home. "She wouldn't be partikler what she'd do if she got a peep and a skute into anything."
"Didn't you say no one could get up or down the Lockjaw when the tide is up?" asked Ruby as she tripped home at Mona's side.