It was whilst I was looking for a suitable spot that Tom Bernard, my
great friend and confidant, found one for me.

'Jack, old fellow,' he said, thrusting a torn newspaper into my hand,
'read that, old man.'

The newspaper was doubled down tightly, and a great red cross of Tom's
making showed me the part he wished me to read.

RUNSWICK BAY.

This charming seaside resort is not half so well known
as it deserves to be. For the lover of the beautiful,
for the man with an artistic eye, it possesses a charm
which words would fail to describe. The little bay is a
favourite resort for artists; they, at least, know how
to appreciate its beauties. It would be well for any who
may desire to visit this wonderfully picturesque and
enchanting spot to secure hotel or lodging-house
accommodation as early as possible, for the demand for
rooms is, in August and September, far greater than the
supply.


'Well, what do you think of it?' said Tom.

'It sounds just the thing,' I said; 'fresh air and plenty to paint.'

'Shall you go?'