She knew the way very well, for
she had often been before, and had not the slightest fear of getting
lost, even if the mist should grow thicker. She walked briskly along, the
track in front of her looking quite plain for several yards, though the
sea below was completely hidden. She recognised many familiar points en
route, the bank where the spleenwort grew, the ruined shed, a supposed
relic of smuggling days, the barbed-wire fence, the group of elder trees,
and the blackberry bank. When she came to the slanting gorse bushes which
overhung the path, she knew she had reached the beginning of St. Morval's
Head, and that she must be just about over the spot where the buoy was
floating with its clapperless bell.
"It's the story of the Inchcape rock all over again," she muttered, and
sitting down on the bracken she began ringing.
It was monotonous work and tiring too. It made her arm ache, and she had
to use her left hand for a while instead. She went on persistently,
however, for who knew what little yacht might be venturing near the
treacherous rocks below.
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