On the next day but one after Nicky Nan Night, Mavis and Merle had returned from school, and were walking in the garden on the terraced path that overlooked the river. It was a vantage-point which gave them as good a view across the bridge and along the high road as any mediÆval maidens might have had from a castle turret, and they gazed at all comers with interest not unmixed with curiosity. There were certainly no Sir Lancelots or Sir Percivales riding into the town clad in golden armour, and carrying silken banners, only modern motor-cars and bicycles, creaking country wagons and homely foot passengers. But presently there was a sound of hoofs, and a smart well-groomed little horse came trotting along from the south. Mavis put up her hand to shade her eyes from the sun, and took an inspection of the rider as he crossed the bridge. Something in the fair, rather delicate face seemed instantly familiar.

"I verily believe it's Tudor Williams," she said.

It was undoubtedly Tudor, and he was evidently coming to Bridge House. He rode round into the stable yard, called to Tom to take his horse, dismounted, and went to the surgery entrance. In the course of a few minutes he came out again, walked briskly on to the terrace, and greeted the girls.

"Your aunt sent me to find you. She's asked me to stay for tea. I came to see Dr. Tremayne, but he's out at a case, so I'm going to wait till he comes back. I say! You've got a nice old garden here, haven't you? I've never been in it before. It's ripping overlooking the river."

Suddenly placed in the position of hostesses Mavis and Merle did the honours graciously. Tudor seemed in a very amiable frame of mind, and was inclined to make himself agreeable. He chatted about the neighbourhood, the weather, some theatres he had visited in town, told them one or two school episodes, and discussed the prospects of the new Durracombe golf club. Mavis, who had discovered his pleasanter side at The Warren, was soon talking quite eagerly, and even Merle, who had a deep prejudice against him, put in a remark now and then. Tea was quite a jovial affair. Aunt Nelly liked to be amused by young people, so they all made jokes and related adventures, and sat on enjoying the fun till the car returned and they heard Uncle David's footstep in the hall. While the Doctor interviewed his patient the two girls ran out to the stable to look at "Armorelle", the lovely satin-coated little horse that snuggled a soft nose against Merle's shoulder, and ate sugar from Mavis's hand. They stood by in much approval of her beauty as Tom led her forth for her master to mount.

"I'd change all the cars in the world for her, sir," said Tom, stroking the glossy neck caressingly. "You don't know what it's been to me to lose my horses. It was like losing children. It's been a pleasure to have her in the stable, sir. It's minded me of old times."

"She's a spoilt darling, and she ate three lumps of sugar," said Mavis. "What a glorious ride you'll have home. I love that road to Chagmouth."

"You must come and see us again at The Warren! And you too" (nodding to Merle). "Are you keen on tennis? So am I. We've a cinder court that we play on in spring. Just drop in some Saturday when you're over with your uncle. Mother and the girls will be pleased to see you, I'm sure. We're generally, some of us, about the place."

Tudor rode away, leaving a much more favourable impression behind him than the girls would have believed possible on their first encounter in the lane above Grimbal's Farm. That unpleasant episode was beginning to fade from their memories. Jim, the fox terrier, ran up to them now in friendly fashion if they chanced to meet him in Chagmouth, though Mavis's skirt, beautifully darned by Jessop, still retained traces of his teeth. It is no use keeping up ill-will against boy or animal, and the Ramsays were quite ready to let bygones be bygones. They even began to decide that they rather liked Tudor, though of course not nearly so much as Bevis. When they went to Grimbal's Farm as usual on Saturday they could not help pouring out to their friend an account of this reconciliation.

"Tom let me climb on Armorelle's back in the stable. Oh, how I'd love to ride her!"

"There's a topping cinder court at The Warren. We're going to bring our rackets with us sometime. Mrs. Glyn Williams has sent a message to Aunt Nellie to say we must go there whenever we like and play tennis."

Bevis was sitting on a hurdle in the stackyard, untwisting a piece of rope while he listened. He bent his head down over his work. They could not see his face at all.

"You won't want to come walks with me now you've made friends at The Warren," he said in a low, strained voice. "I quite understand. I never thought you'd care to go about with a fellow like me. It wasn't to be expected. It's all right!"

When Bevis, in that strangled tone, said "it's all right", it was invariably a sign that matters were all wrong. The girls, aghast at their own lack of tact, hastened to set things straight, and to reassure him that they would not miss their walk with him that afternoon for worlds.

"You promised us a surprise at Blackthorn Bower!"

"We've been looking forward to it the whole week, and counting the days."

"It's really nothing worth taking you up there for." (Bevis's voice was still gloomy.) "If you'd rather go to The Warren, please go. It's all right."

"Look here, don't be absurd," urged Merle. "We want to see the Bower again, and we're going there this afternoon. You can please yourself whether you come with us or not."

"But I don't think we quite remember the way," added Mavis artfully. "It would be so very tiresome if we were to lose ourselves."

Of course that settled it. Bevis was bound to offer himself as guide, and by the time they started he appeared to be in a smoother temper. He whistled quite cheerily as he slung a shooting-bag over his back. He gave the girls three guesses each as to its contents, but would not tell them whether they were right or wrong.

"You'll see when you get there," he replied, and went on whistling softly to himself.

By mutual but unacknowledged consent they walked by an upper way across the fields. It was a little longer, but it avoided all possibility of meeting the Glyn Williams anywhere in the village. To run up against them would have been most embarrassing. As it was, nobody mentioned even their names. The girls, having once "put their foot in it", were cautious, and avoided all reference to The Warren.

Fortunately their backs were turned in that direction, as they walked towards the headland.

When they reached Blackthorn Bower they found an immense surprise awaiting them. Bevis must have been very busy during the time which had intervened since their last visit. He had taken some of the stones from the old wall, and some sods and some branches, and had constructed a kind of beehive hut, such as must have been used by the primitive dwellers in these islands.

"It's just the sort of thing they lived in in the Bronze Age," he explained. "I borrowed one of Mr. Barnes's books, Antiquities of Devonshire, and it gave a fancy picture of what some of the prehistoric villages probably looked like. The only bit I altered was the doorway. I made it big, so that we could see out of it; and of course they had low holes that they crawled through, and blocked with a stone."

Mavis and Merle were delighted with the structure raised in their honour. They had been keen on history at Whinburn High School, and had studied the Stone and Bronze Ages under an interesting teacher, so that it was particularly fascinating to find what seemed as good as a real live specimen of a house of the period actually before their eyes. They went inside at once and took possession. There were some logs for seats, and a big stone for a table placed in the middle of the hut. While they were examining these, Bevis slung his shooting-bag carefully from his shoulder and began to unpack it. Then he produced what he evidently considered his masterpiece.

There was a small quarry near Chagmouth whence China clay was shipped. He had begged a big lump of this, kneaded it and moulded it into handleless cups, and had baked them in the oven at the farm. They were, of course, roughly made, but they much resembled prehistoric pottery, even to the willow-withe markings which he had put on them. They were stained on the outside, one red, one blue, and one yellow.

"So that we shall each know our own," he explained, handing the blue to Mavis and the red to Merle.

It was undoubtedly an anachronism that Bevis had brought a thermos flask in his shooting-bag, and offered his friends tea in their home-baked cups, but they were not disposed to quarrel with such a mixture of ancient and modern. They sat on their log seats, eating cake and sipping the modern beverage in defiance of historic accuracy.

"I feel as if the Bronze Age people who were buried in the mound ought to rise up and come and turn us out and say it was their shanty," laughed Merle.

"What did they do with the skeletons that were found there?" asked Mavis suddenly.

"Took them to the County Museum," answered Bevis. "I didn't like the idea myself. I think it was hateful to put the poor things' bones in a glass case. They ought to have left them where they were buried, with their hands still clasped and the little baby in the woman's arm. They must have been fond of each other thousands of years ago."

"Perhaps he built her a hut like this and made her clay pottery," speculated Mavis. "I've no doubt he did."

"But she didn't drink tea out of it anyway," snorted Merle. "Don't be sentimental over the Bronze Age people, you two. I'd rather call the tumulus a pixie mound, and imagine the wee folk coming tumbling out of it some moonlight night, and dancing on the grass. Don't Chagmouth people tell any stories about pixies?"

"They wouldn't be Devon folk unless they did. Yes, there are heaps of pixie tales. They say an old man from Groves Cottage was once pixie-led on the moor. He wandered round and round in a circle, and couldn't find his way home till he turned his coat inside out, and that broke the spell. There was an old woman over by Tangoran who used to tell a wonderful tale about a fairy."

"Oh, what was that?"

"It's a weird sort of story. There was once a lad named Will Killigarth, who lived at Horndon, up on the moor. There was a witch in the village, and she told him that if he would go on Hallowe'en and dig inside one of the ancient stone circles that he would find treasure, only he must go at midnight, and go alone. He was rather frightened of the business, but he took his father's spade and went. It was heavy work digging, but at last he struck something, and drew out a bowl of rough pottery, all full of gold pieces. He was just picking this up when he heard a cry, and in the moonlight he saw a most lovely girl with streaming yellow hair stretching out her hands imploringly to him. She said she was the guardian of the gold, and begged him to bury it again where it was in the circle. He said he would do so if she would marry him, and after thinking awhile she said yes. So he buried the treasure and took the girl home to the village and married her. She lived with him just a year, and then on the next Hallowe'en she vanished, and he never saw her again. He hunted for the stone circle where he had dug before, but he never could find the right one again. There are so many of them up on the moor. So he lost both the treasure and the girl."

"Did they actually believe these stories?" asked Mavis, knitting her brows.

"Oh yes, in the old days they believed them, just as they believed in witches and charms and all the rest of it. Mr. Barnes calls all the old tales folk-history. He says the pixies were the prehistoric Stone Age or Bronze Age people who lived on into historic times, and hid themselves in the mounds or caves or wild places on the moor. The stories of the pixies' habits and haunts read just like accounts of very primitive people. Bronze Age or Stone Age folk would be sure to come at night and steal things from the Celtic tribes who had settled in Devon, and they would bury their treasures inside their huts. The stone circles on the moor are the ruined walls of their huts."

"But surely the Stone Age folk didn't go living on till about the seventeenth century?" asked Mavis, still puzzled. "No, but you know how people like to bring a story up to date. They often tell you a thing happened to themselves when you know it must have happened to their great-grandfather. The old Celtic accounts of the little men on the moor would keep being handed down, and each generation would fit the story with fresh names, and a few extra details."

"Miss Donald told us a lot about that at Whinburn High. She said the dragons of old folk-tales were probably prehistoric animals that had lingered on in lonely places—very likely pterodactyls."

"I dare say they were. To judge from the fossils that have been found the old monsters must have been pretty common in Devon. You should ask Mr. Barnes. He's great on all this kind of thing, always poking about and digging, and measuring hut circles and all the rest of it."

"It's awfully fascinating," said Mavis.

"Ye-es, but just a trifle spooky," admitted Merle. "Honestly I shouldn't like to spend a night up here camping out in this shanty. I'd be scared to death of the mound dwellers. What are we to do with our prehistoric cups, Bevis? Leave them here or take them back?"

It was decided to wash the cups in a pool of water close by, and leave them inside the hut to be ready for some future picnic. That domestic duty finished, the Triumvirate wended their way back in the direction of Chagmouth. This time they climbed by a pathway down the cliffs on to the beach, in order to go home along the shore. It was low tide, so they could walk on the firm sands at the edge of the high-water mark. Little gentle waves were rippling in over the rocks, cormorants were diving for fish, and the inevitable seagulls were wheeling and screaming, or settling down in the pools to hunt for tit-bits. At the corner of the cove, built on the solid rock barely above the level of winter storms, stood the little old, old church of St. Gervan's, disused now, except for an annual service. Before the building of Chagmouth church in the eighteenth century it had served a wide district, and there were tales that its bell had often proved a signal for ships in a fog, and had warned them off the rocks. There were other and wilder stories, of smugglers who had hidden their contraband goods inside the pews, of the press-gang who had waylaid the fishermen as they returned from service and had carried them off to serve in His Majesty's navy, and of a wicked parson, foremost among a gang of wreckers, whose uneasy ghost still haunted the beach on moonlight nights.

Bevis, who knew all the legends of the village, poured out these tales for the girls' benefit, and of course they naturally wanted to take a look at the place. So they climbed the eighty-seven rough stone steps that led up from the shore, and scrambled over the wall into the little churchyard. It was a neglected spot, but all the more picturesque on that account. Long grass grew over the graves, and moss had almost obliterated the names on the fallen stones, the framework of the doorway had sunk at one end, and the tower had lost some of its coping in the last gale. The great pieces lay strewn about the path. The windows looked cobwebby, but one of them was open, and, with some difficulty, Bevis hoisted the girls up to peep inside. The poor little church, flung aside now like a cast-off ecclesiastical garment, nevertheless showed signs of its former glories, when worshippers had given of their best to deck it forth. Its pre-reformation rood-screen, one of the very few to escape the commissioners' hatchets or Puritan whitewash, was carved with quaint figures of saints, and still showed traces of colouring in red and blue and gold. The oak benches, grey for want of oil or polish, were also carved, and in the chancel there was a splendid pew with a wooden canopy embossed and painted like the rood-screen, though plainly of a later date. The whole was mouldy and ill-kept, but at least had been saved from the ruthless hand of that foe to all antiquarian lore, the nineteenth-century restorer, who would probably have stripped it of rood-screen and carved benches, and have replaced them with pitch pine.

"I'd like to sit in that gorgeous pew," said Mavis, dropping down from her perch, and examining her grazed hands tenderly.

"That belongs to the Tallands. It goes with The Warren. There's an old monument down the nave to some of the family. You couldn't see it properly from that window," explained Bevis.

"Don't they ever clean the place up?" asked Merle. "They do once a year, before the festival."

"When is the festival?"

"Late in May. They always have kept it at Chagmouth, and they make much more of it now because they have the war-memorial service at the same time, and everybody goes to that. The cross is up there, just at the top of the churchyard."

The people from the several places which the tiny church had originally served had joined together in erecting a memorial to their brave boys who had fallen in the Great War—a plain Celtic cross of granite, placed on a platform of rock above the church, where it could be very plainly seen by all the vessels that passed by in or out of the harbour. It was a magnificent situation for it, far more romantic than any in the town, and to judge from the wreaths and bunches of flowers laid at its foot, it was the goal of an easy walk along the cliffs on Sundays. Mavis, who stopped to read the roll of honour, took the violets from her button-hole and laid them with the rest of the floral tributes.

"I like this wee church much better than St. John's," she remarked. "Although it's so dirty and cobwebby and dilapidated, it seems to have more of the old spirit of Chagmouth about it somehow. It takes one back to Drake and Raleigh, almost to the days of King Arthur. I'm so glad Merle and I are Devon folk on Mother's side at any rate. We're tremendously proud of it."

Bevis was looking beyond the ancient walls to where the little town lay alongside its harbour at the edge of the grey sea.

"The boys over there have always taunted me that I don't belong to Chagmouth, but I've got the spirit of the place in me all the same," he said. "I don't believe there's one of them that cares for it like I do. As for the Glyn Williamses they'd modernize it to-morrow if they were allowed. I hope to goodness General Talland will never sell them the property, or they'd sweep away every picturesque corner in it, and widen the street so as to bring cars down. They've not a scrap of taste. That new Institute may be all right for lectures and theatricals and the rest of it, but I should think they chose the most hideous plan that the architects submitted. It's a perfect eyesore standing just where it does. You should hear Mr. Barnes hold forth about it. He got his way at any rate about the war memorial though, and insisted on a Celtic cross. Mr. Glyn Williams wanted a sort of 'Cleopatra's needle' and nearly carried the committee. Think of planting an ancient Egyptian monument on the cliff here. It would have been ridiculous. The Glyn Williamses may look down upon me and call me a 'nobody', but I've better taste than they have, and know more about old things too. I can't see that having pots of money gives people the right to ride rough-shod over the whole town."

The boy spoke hotly, almost furiously. Evidently the subject was a sore one.

"You're not called a nobody," said Mavis. "I am a nobody, and no one knows that better than myself. If I'd even the slightest clue, I'd be off and away to hunt out my own relations. I wouldn't stay here only I'm needed so on the farm. I sometimes think I'll——" but here Bevis stopped and looked rather ashamed.

"Don't take any notice of me," he continued more quietly. "I don't often break out like this. Why should I bother you with my troubles? They're nothing to you!"

"Yes they are," said Mavis gently. "We're very interested indeed."

"And very sorry," added Merle.

They had the good sense, however, to change the subject, and Bevis, though at first his answers were rather short, gradually recovered himself. By the time they reached the farm he was chatting just as usual, and telling more stories of Devonshire pixies. He went into the surgery and helped Dr. Tremayne to dispense some medicines, and as the girls were starting home in the car they saw him in the orchard cutting down an apple tree, chopping away with most terrific energy.

"I guess he's working off steam," said Merle waving her hand.

"Yes, I didn't know what a volcano he was covering up till he let some of it bubble out this afternoon. Uncle David! What's going to become of Bevis? Will he always stay on the farm? He's so clever!"

"Yes, poor lad, he's worthy of better things, and would make a name for himself some day if he got the chance. He ought to be back at school. It's hard luck on him to have his education broken off just when he was beginning to do so brilliantly. A nice lad too—a very nice lad—one of the nicest lads I know," muttered the old doctor, half to himself, as the car sped up the hill, and the sound of Bevis's blows on the apple tree grew fainter and fainter, then died away behind them.