the valley road B D they had been partly pursuing. About half-an-hour brought them to the northern end of the ridge—a wooded shoulder, which their route in the morning had skirted, whence the view was open to Queenstown, prettily displayed on the frontage of a steep eminence across the great blue basin.
‘We shall have to get down into the road again, I think,’ observed Mr Bristley. ‘It’s evidently all wood from here tight down to the Cove; there’s no way through the wood that I can see; and look! there’s another shower making for us. Hadn’t we better use that little sheltered hollow just below as our refectory, eh? I’m not so spiritual as you are, Lesbia, and my inner man craveth for creature comforts.’
The girl only remarked in a dreamy manner,—
‘How the gusts moan through the trees! Do you hear what the voice in the wind says?’ looking at her uncle fixedly.
‘Voice in the wind! No. What do you mean?’
‘It keeps calling, Close the ranks! Close the ranks!’
Mr Bristley took to his pocket-handkerchief, and, under cover of using it, gulped down his uneasy feeling with one of his strong efforts. Then turning to his niece, with a cheerful laugh,—
‘What nonsense, Lesbia! what an imagination you have! To me now the voice in the wind—since you mention it—does certainly seem to say, Sherry and sandwiches! Sherry and sandwiches!’
Her uncle’s persistent good-humour at last produced upon her the effect he desired; she laughed in her turn, merrily and naturally.
‘And what an imagination you have too, Uncle Spines! There’s no fear you’ll ever be haunted—you haven't self-respect enough. But sherry and sandwiches, by all means.
