struck by her good looks and intelligence that he begged her from her parents and took her back with him to be a servant to his wife. In her new situation she conducted herself with so much propriety that on his wife's death he courted and married her. Soon after he himself died, and left her a wealthy widow. Her next marriage was to a much richer man, named Henry Gall. Widowed a second time, and again inheriting her husband's money, she took for her third and last husband Sir John Percival, Lord Mayor of London. Him, too, she outlived, and after his death returned to her native village, where she employed her great riches in works of charity. Amongst her other good deeds she founded and endowed a chantry there, together with a free school, and lodgings for masters, scholars and officers.
The Rev. R. S. Hawker, in his book before-quoted, has a legend which he calls "The first Cornish Mole. A Morality." I, however, suspect it to be a pure invention of this author; but as it is very pretty, I will give the substance of it. Alice of the Combe was a very beautiful, but proud and vain, damsel; the only child of her widowed mother, with whom she dwelt at Morwenstow. It chanced one day that they, with all the neighbouring gentry, had been bidden to a grand banquet at Stow; and, as she had set her love on the great and noble Sir Beville Grenville, its owner, Alice, to win his affections, dressed herself in her richest robe,—"a woven velvet, glossy and soft," and put on her fairest jewellery. Her mother, when she saw her thus attired, struck by her exceeding grace and beauty, said, "Often shall I pray to-night that the Grenville heart may yield. Aye, thy victory shall be my prayer." The haughty maiden replied, "With the eyes I now see in that glass, and with this vesture, meet for a queen, I lack no trusting prayer." At this a sudden cry was heard, and the damsel disappeared from their sight for ever. Shortly after, the Combe gardener discovered in the garden a small, unknown hillock, and on the top of it shone a ring, which was recognized as the one the lady wore on the day she vanished. A close examination showed that an old Cornish couplet was now traced on it, which the parish priest interpreted to mean—
"The earth must hide
Both eyes with pride."
