A streamlet of clear water, hurrying down from the upland by the Devil's Hedge, here leapt the low cliff and fell on a pebbly beach, driving the pebbles before it and by their attrition wearing out for itself a natural basin.

Encountering a low ridge of rock on the edge of the tideway, the stones heaped themselves along it and formed a bar, with one tiny outlet through which the pool trickled continually, except at high spring tides when the river overflowed it.
Now Miss Marty, fetching a compass around this miniature creek, came in due course to the stream and seated herself on a fallen log, to consider.

For the ground on the farther side appeared green and plashy, and she disliked wetting her shoes.
Overhead a finch piped.

Below her, hidden by a screen of hazel, chattered the fall.

Why should she wend farther?
She must be greedy of solitude indeed if this sylvan corner did not content her.
And yet.