decided to make it for a time the home of himself and his family.

These were his children--the group on the seashore. Rumour had
exaggerated a little in saying he had 'several.' There were but three of
them, and of these three two were girls. So Celestina Fairchild's
thoughts about them had some foundation after all.

'It looks just a little, a very little dreary,' said the eldest of the
three, a girl of thirteen or so, slight and rather tall for her age,
with a pretty graceful figure and pretty delicate features; 'but then of
course it's the middle of winter. Not that spring or summer would make
much difference here; there are so very few trees.'

She glanced round her as she spoke. It was a bare, almost
desolate-looking stretch of country, down to the sea, which was still
and gray-looking this morning. Yet there was a strange charm about it
too--the land, though by no means hilly, was undulating. Not far from
where the children stood there was a grand run of sand-hills, with
coarse, strong grass and a few hardy thistles, and, in its season,
bindweed with its white and pinky flowers, growing along their summit.
Farther off was a sort of skeleton-like erection, looking not unlike the
gaunt remains of a deserted sail-less ship: this was a landmark or
beacon, placed there to point out a sudden turn in the coastline. And
out at sea, a mile or so distant, stood a lighthouse with a revolving
lantern; three times in each minute the bright light was to be seen as
soon as night fell. A kind of natural breakwater ran out in a straight
line to the lighthouse, so that in low tides--and the tides are
sometimes very low at Seacove--it was difficult to believe but that you
could get on foot all the way to the lighthouse rock.