They descended the ladders.  Trevarthen met them in the kitchen and went before them with his lantern.  In a minute they were in the cradle again and swinging toward the cliff.  The wisp of sea-fog had drifted past the light-house to leeward, and all was clear again.  High over the cupola Cassiopeia leaned toward the pole, her breast flashing its eternal badge—­the star-pointed W. Low in the north—­as the country tale went—­tied to follow her emotions, externally separate, eternally true to the fixed star of her gaze, the Waggoner tilted his wheels and drove them close and along and above the misty sea.

Taffy, pulling on the rope, looked down upon Honoria’s upturned face and saw the glimmer of starlight in her eyes; but neither guessed her thoughts nor tried to.

It was only when they stood together on the cliff-side that she broke the silence.  “Look,” she said, and pointed upward.  “Does that remind you of anything?”

He searched his memory.  “No,” he confessed:  “that is, if you mean Cassiopeia up yonder.”

“Think!—­the Ship of Stars.”

“The Ship of Stars?—­Yes, I remember now.  There was a young sailor—­ with a ship of stars tattooed on his chest.  He was drowned on this very coast.”

“Was that a part of the story you were to tell me?”

“What story?  I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you remember that day—­the morning when we began lessons together?  You explained the alphabet to me, and when we came to W—­ you said it was a ship—­a ship of stars.  There was a story about it, you said, and promised to tell me some day.”

He laughed.  “What queer things you remember!”

“But what was the story?”

“I wonder!  If I ever knew, I’ve forgotten.  I dare say I had something in my head.  Now I think of it, I was always making up some foolish tale or other, in those days.”

Yes; he had forgotten.  “I have often tried to make up a story about that ship,” she said gravely, “out of odds and ends of the stories you used to tell.  I don’t think I ever had the gift to invent anything on my own account.  But at last, after a long while—­”

“The story took shape?  Tell it to me, please.”

She hesitated, and broke into a bitter little laugh.  “No,” said she, “you never told me yours.”  Again it came to her with a pang that he and she had changed places.  He had taken her forthrightness and left her, in exchange, his dreams.  They were hers now, the gaily coloured childish fancies, and she must take her way among them alone.  Dreams only! but just as a while back he had started to confess his dream and had broken down before her, so now in turn she knew that her tongue was held.

Humility rose as they entered the kitchen together.  A glance as Honoria held out her hand for good-bye told her all she needed to know.

“And you are leaving in a day or two?” Honoria asked.