toward the rectory. It was a cool July morning, with the sun half
obscured by a fog-bank driven in from the sea. Through the dazzling
white of that which is known on these coasts as the water-smoke the
sky shone a cloudless blue. The air was light and thin. It is the
lightest and thinnest air in England. Dormer Colville hummed a song
under his breath as he walked on the top of the dyke. He was a
light-hearted man, full of hope and optimism.

"Am I disturbing your studies?" he asked, with his easy laugh, as he
came rather suddenly on Miriam and little Sep in the turf-shelter at
the corner of the rectory garden. "You must say so if I am."

They had, indeed, their books, and the boy's face wore that
abstracted look which comes from a very earnest desire not to see
the many interesting things on earth and sea, which always force
themselves upon the attention of the young at the wrong time.
Colville had already secured Sep's friendship by the display of a
frank ignorance of natural history only equalled by his desire to be
taught.

"We're doing history," replied Sep, frankly, jumping up and shaking
hands.

"Ah, yes. William the Conqueror, ten hundred and sixty-six, and all
the rest of it. I know. At least I knew once, but I have
forgotten."

"No. We're doing French history. Miriam likes that best, but I
hate it."