“Look, Effie,” said he, “that is the boat out of which I was upset.”  Effie opened her wide eyes, and stared at the frail craft.

“It is a horrid boat,” she said; “I don’t want to look at it.”

“You’re quite right, little miss,” said old Edward, touching his cap.  “It ain’t safe, and somebody will be drowned out of it one of these days.  I wish it had gone to the bottom, I do; but Miss Beatrice, she is that foolhardy there ain’t no doing nothing with her.”

“I fancy that she has learnt a lesson,” said Geoffrey.

“May be, may be,” grumbled the old man, “but women folk are hard to teach; they never learn nothing till it’s too late, they don’t, and then when they’ve been and done it they’re sorry, but what’s the good o’ that?”

Meanwhile another conversation was in progress not more than a quarter of a mile away.  On the brow of the cliff stood the village of Bryngelly, and at the back of the village was a school, a plain white-washed building, roofed with stone, which, though amply sufficient and suitable to the wants of the place, was little short of an abomination in the eyes of Her Majesty’s school inspectors, who from time to time descended upon Bryngelly for purposes of examination and fault-finding.  They yearned to see a stately red-brick edifice, with all the latest improvements, erected at the expense of the rate-payers, but as yet they yearned in vain.  The school was supported by voluntary contributions, and thanks to Beatrice’s energy and good teaching, the dreaded Board, with its fads and extravagance, had not yet clutched it.

Beatrice had returned to her duties that afternoon, for a night’s rest brought back its vigour to her strong young frame.  She had been greeted with enthusiasm by the children, who loved her, as well they might, for she was very gentle and sweet with them, though few dared to disobey her.  Besides, her beauty impressed them, though they did not know it.  Beauty of a certain sort has perhaps more effect on children than on any other class, heedless and selfish as they often seem to be.  They feel its power; it is an outward expression of the thoughts and dreams that bud in their unknowing hearts, and is somehow mixed up with their ideas of God and Heaven.  Thus there was in Bryngelly a little girl of ten, a very clever and highly excitable child, Jane Llewellyn by name, born of parents of strict Calvinistic views.  As it chanced, some months before the opening of this story, a tub thumper, of high renown and considerable rude oratorical force, visited the place, and treated his hearers to a lively discourse on the horrors of Hell.

In the very front row, her eyes wide with fear, sat this poor little child between her parents, who listened to the Minister with much satisfaction, and a little way back sat Beatrice, who had come out of curiosity.

Presently the preacher, having dealt sufficiently in terrifying generalities, went on to practical illustrations, for, after the manner of his class, he was delivering an extemporary oration.  “Look at that child,” he said, pointing to the little girl; “she looks innocent, does she not? but if she does not find salvation, my brethren, I tell you that she is damned.  If she dies to-night, not having found salvation, she will go to Hell.  Her delicate little body will be tormented for ever and ever——­”