him into the vasty deep once for all. We mustn’t forget to take some lunch with us into Dreamland, because the stuff that dreams are made of doesn’t suit my digestion, and I fancy there’s nothing else to be had there.’
The next day, fortunately, was fine and clear on the whole, but a warm southerly wind brought short showers at intervals. The regular ferry having ceased for the year, they hired a small boat to take them over to the village of Whitegate, situated in a bay of Cork Harbour to the south-east of Queenstown, and partly hidden from it by an intervening islet. After the boatman had pulled up some distance, they got a side wind and were able to set sail, and bounding merrily along, past the various craft that dotted the wide basin, they landed in less than an hour on the road which runs along the face of the village as a sea-wall would do. As they walked away, Lesbia began to feel a vivid interest in every portion of the route, notwithstanding that behind the village there was nothing but the most ordinary and tame scenery of wood and down. The road leading from the village southwards divides into two, the main road following a partly wooded valley, the other, which keeps more the coast line, mounting the hill at once. It was this latter route our friends chose, and it soon led them out on the high bleak down, where, a pelting shower coming, they were glad to shelter for two or three minutes under the lee of a fragment of wall. They then walked on until stopped by the dyke on the inland side of Fort Carlisle already mentioned, the eastern portion of which they skirted.
‘Strong place this,’ Mr Bristley remarked, as they stood looking down into the great gulf of masonry.
‘Yes, whether in the hands of friend or enemy,’ replied Lesbia, in an incisive tone, which made her uncle look at her with momentary surprise.
