174 WHISPERS FROM FAIRVLAND [1v.

 

to be thought of. The waves were running mountains
high and dashing themselves like mad things upon the
rocks, scattering their spray far before them as they
broke with a crash like thunder. The sea-gulls were
flitting like uneasy spirits over the sea, and every now
and then uttering a shrill cry which you might take
to mean delight, fear, or excitement, whichever you
pleased, but which was neither musical to the tender
ear nor reassuring to the timid heart.

I don’t know much about Molly Goodchild’s ear,
but her heart was certainly timid, and particularly so
upon the evening upon which she is introduced to our
notice. For John Goodchild, her husband for ten
years past, albeit a sturdy man and well able to earn
his living and support his family by following his trade
as a fisherman, was unfortunately given to combining
other and less lawful pursuits with that legitimate
occupation. In those days, smuggling was deemed
no great crime by the seafaring population of the coast,
and John Goodchild was generally supposed to be one
of the gang who had run many cargoes and success-
fully eluded the vigilance of the Preventive men for a
long time.

Nor was rumour so much in the wrong in this
particular instance as is frequently the case. John
Goodchild was in the thick of the smuggling, sure
enough, and a bolder and more fearless fellow could
hardly be found. His cottage was handy to the shore,
being built into the chalk cliffs which rose like giants
from the sea, close to it at one place, then falling back
for a hundred yards inland and then jutting out again as
if to give the waves something to dash against in high