"Like me, I dare say you find the scent of the new-mown hay
refreshingly grateful. And what a scene! What a beautiful porch, so
to speak, to the beauties of Cornwall!--beauties of which I have
often heard tell."
"Yes, Sir," answers Sal demurely. "Did you ever hear tell, too, why
Old Nick never came into Cornwall?"
"H'm--ha--some proverbial saying, no doubt? But--you will excuse
me--I think we should avoid speaking lightly of the great Enemy of
Mankind."
"He was afraid," pursued Sal, "of being put into a pie." She paused
at that, giving her words time to sink in. The preacher didn't
notice yet awhile that Long Eliza Treleaven and Thomasine Oliver had
crept round a bit and planted themselves in the footpath behind him.
After a bit Sal let herself go in a comfortable smile, and says she,
in a pretty, coaxing voice, "Sit yourself down, preacher, that's a
dear: sit yourself down, nice and close, and have a talk!"
The poor fellow fetched a start at this. He didn't know, of course,
that everyone's "my dear" in Cornwall, and I'm bound to say I've seen
foreigners taken aback by it--folks like commercial travellers, not
given to shyness as a rule.
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