time and quiet for story-telling.'

I accepted his invitation gratefully, for September had come, and the
evenings were growing dark, and my time hung somewhat heavily on my
hands. Polly, I think, was not sorry when she heard I was going out, for
Duncan was away in the boat fishing, and little John was so feverish and
restless that she could not put him down even for a moment.

The cottage looked very bright and pretty when I arrived, and they gave
me a most kind welcome. A small fire was burning in the grate, for the
evenings were becoming chilly. The bow window was hung with India-muslin
curtains, tied up with amber ribbon, the walls were adorned with
photographs framed in oak, the supper table was covered with a snowy
cloth, and a dainty little meal was laid out with the greatest taste and
care, whilst in the centre was a china bowl, containing the leaves of
the creeper which covered the house, interspersed with yellow bracken
and other beautiful leaves, in every varied shade of their autumn glory.
Jack's mother was evidently a woman of taste. She had a quiet, gentle
face, almost sad at times when it was at rest; but she had Jack's eyes
and Jack's bright smile, which lighted up her face, as a burst of
brilliant sunshine will stream suddenly down a dark valley, and make it
a perfect avenue of light.

I enjoyed the company of both husband and wife exceedingly, and as we
sat round the table and chatted over our supper all feeling of
constraint passed away, and I no longer heard the words of that question
which had so troubled me all day long. He did not mention the object for
which I had come whilst the meal was going on. We talked of Runswick Bay
and its surroundings, of the fishermen and their life of danger; we
spoke of the children, and of my picture, of my hopes with regard to the