Chapter I. A Cornish Landlord.

"Then you don‘t care for the place yourself, Tyrrel?" Eustace Le Neve said, musingly, as he gazed in front of him with a comprehensive glance at the long gray moor and the wide expanse of black and stormy water.

"It‘s bleak, of course； bleak and cold, I grant you； all this upland plateau about the Lizard promontory seems bleak and cold everywhere； but to my mind it has a certain wild and weird picturesqueness of its own for all that. It aims at gloominess. I confess in its own way I don‘t dislike it."

"For my part," Tyrrel answered, clinching his hand hard as he spoke, and knitting his brow despondently, "I simply hate it. If I wasn‘t the landlord here, to be perfectly frank with you, I‘d never come near Penmorgan. I do it for conscience‘ sake, to be among my own people. That‘s my only reason. I disapprove of absenteeism； and now the land‘s mine, why, I must put up with it, I suppose, and live upon it in spite of myself. But I do

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