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hills and the moors. The grey slate inn, with its tall chimneys, forbidding and uninhabited though it seemed, was the only dwelling place on the landscape. To the west of Jamaica high tors reared their heads; some were smooth like downland, and the grass shone yellow under the fitful winter sun; but others were sinister and austere, their peaks crowned with granite and great slabs of stone. Now and again the sun was obscured by cloud, and long shadows fled over the moors like fingers. Colour came in patches; sometimes the hills were purple, inkstained, and mottled, and then a feeble ray of sun would come from a wisp of cloud, and one hill would be golden brown while his neighbour still languished in the dark. The scene was never once the same, for it would be the glory of high noon to the east, with the moor as motionless as desert sand; and away to the westwards arctic winter fell upon the hills, brought by a jagged cloud shaped like a highwayman’s cloak, that scattered hail and snow and a sharp spittle rain onto the granite tors. The air was strong and sweet smelling, cold as mountain air, and strangely pure. It was a revelation to Mary, accustomed as she was to the warm and soft climate of Helford, with its high hedges and tall protecting trees. Even the east wind had been no hardship there, for the arm of the headland acted as a defence to those on land, and it was only the river that ran turbulent and green, the wave crests whipped with foam.
    However grim and hateful was this new country, however barren and untilled, with Jamaica Inn standing alone upon the hill as a buffer to the four winds, there was a challenge in the air that spurred Mary Yellan to adventure. It stung her, bringing colour to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes; it played with her hair, blowing it about her face; and as she breathed deep she drew it through her nostrils and into her lungs, more quenching and sweeter than a draught of cider. She went to the water trough and put her hands under the spring. The water ran clear and icy cold. She drank some, and it was unlike any water she had drunk before, bitter, queer, with a lingering peat taste like the smoke from the turf fire in the kitchen.
    It was deep and satisfying, for her thirst went from her.
    She felt strong in her body and emboldened in spirit, and she went back into the house to find Aunt Patience, her appetite sharp for the dinner that she hoped awaited her. She fell to with a will upon stewed mutton and turnips, and, her hunger appeased now for the first time for four-and-twenty hours she felt her courage return to her, and she was ready to question her aunt and risk the consequences.
    “Aunt Patience,” she began, “why is my uncle the landlord of Jamaica Inn?”
    The sudden direct attack took the woman by surprise, and for a moment she stared at Mary without reply. Then she flushed scarlet and began to work her mouth. “Why,” she faltered, “it’s—it’s a very prominent place here, on the road. You can see that. This is the main road from the south. The coaches pass here twice a week. They come from Truro, and Bodmin, and so on, to Launceston. You came yourself yesterday. There’s always company on the road. Travellers, and private gentlemen, and sometimes sailors from Falmouth.”
    “Yes, Aunt Patience. But why don’t they stop at Jamaica?”
    “They do. They often ask for a drink in the bar. We’ve a good custom here.”
    “How can you say that when the parlour is never used, and the guest rooms are stored with lumber, fit only for rats and mice? I’ve seen them for myself. I’ve been to inns before, smaller ones than this by far. There was an inn at home, in the village. The landlord was a friend of ours. Many a time Mother and I had tea in the parlour; and upstairs, though there were only two rooms, they were furnished and fitted up in style for travellers.”
    Her aunt was silent for a moment, working her mouth and twisting her fingers in her lap. “Your