These dotted her native land. Them she had always loved, but now
they appeared marvelously transfigured, and the soul hid in their granite
beamed through it. Supposing the true menhirs to be but ruined crosses
also, Joan shed on them no scantier affection than upon the less venerable
Brito-Celtic records of Christianity. Bid so to do, and prompted also by
her inclination, the girl was wont to take walks of some length for her
health's sake; and these had an object now. As her dead mother's legends
came back to her memory and knit Nature to her new Saviour, so the
weather-beaten stones brought Him likewise nearer, marked the goal of
precious daily pilgrimages, and filled a sad young life with friends.
Returning from a visit to Tremathick cross, where it stands upon a little
mound on the St. Just road, Joan heard a thin and well-known voice before
she saw the speaker. It was Mrs. Tregenza, who had walked over to drink tea
and satisfy herself on sundry points respecting her stepdaughter.
"Oh, my Guy Faux, Polly!" she said upon arriving, "I'm in a reg'lar take to
be here, though I knaws Michael's t'other side the islands an' won't fetch
home 'fore marnin'. I've comed 'cause I couldn't keep from it no more.
How's her doin', poor tibby lamb, wi' all them piles o' money tu. Not that
money did ought to make a differ'nce, but it do, an' that's the truth, an'
it edn' no good makin' as though it doan't.
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