Elfride had already scanned the small surface of ocean visible,and had seen no ship.
They walked along in company,sometimes with the brook between them--for it was no wider than a mans stride--sometimes close together.The green carpet grew swampy,and they kept higher up.
One of the two ridges between which they walked dwindled lower and became insignificant.That on the right hand rose with their advance,and terminated in a clearly defined edge against the light,as if it were abruptly sawn off.A little further,and the bed of the rivulet ended in the same fashion.
They had come to a bank breast-high,and over it the valley was no longer to be seen.It was withdrawn cleanly and completely.In its place was sky and boundless atmosphere;and perpendicularly down beneath them--small and far off--lay the corrugated surface of the Atlantic.
The small stream here found its death.Running over the precipice it was dispersed in spray before it was half-way down,and falling like rain upon projecting ledges,made minute grassy meadows of them.At the bottom the water-drops soaked away amid the debris of the cliff.This was the inglorious end of the river.
What are you looking for?said Knight,following the direction of her eyes.
She was gazing hard at a black object--nearer to the shore than to the horizon--from the summit of which came a nebulous haze,stretching like gauze over the sea.
The Puffin,a little summer steamboat--from Bristol to Castle Boterel,she said.I think that is it--look.Will you give me the glass?
Knight pulled open the old-fashioned but powerful telescope,and handed it to Elfride,who had looked on with heavy eyes.
I cant keep it up now,she said.
Rest it on my shoulder.
It is too high.
Under my arm.
Too low.You may look instead,she murmured weakly.
Knight raised the glass to his eye,and swept the sea till the Puffin entered its field.