that the fair face of nature was not to be defiled. I have always taken the
part of excursionists in these latter days of running to and fro, against
those who complain that the loveliest places are being destroyed by their
inroads. But there is one most offensive, even disgusting habit amongst
them--that of leaving bones, fragments of meat pies, and worse than all,
pieces of greasy paper about the place, which I cannot excuse, or at least
defend. Even the surface of Cumberland and Westmoreland lakes will be
defiled with these floating abominations--not abominations at all if they
are decently burned or buried when done with, but certainly abominations
when left to be cast hither and thither in the wind, over the grass, or on
the eddy and ripple of the pure water, for days after those who have thus
left their shame behind them have returned to their shops or factories. I
forgive them for trampling down the grass and the ferns. That cannot be
helped, and in comparison of the good they get, is not to be considered at
all. But why should they leave such a savage trail behind them as this,
forgetting too that though they have done with the spot, there are others
coming after them to whom these remnants must be an offence?

At length in our roaming, Wynnie and I approached a long low ridge of rock,
rising towards the sea into which it ran. Crossing this, we came suddenly
upon the painter whom Dora had called Niceboots, sitting with a small easel
before him. We were right above him ere we knew. He had his back towards
us, so that we saw at once what he was painting.

"O, papa!" cried Wynnie involuntarily, and the painter looked round.

"I beg your pardon," I said. "We came over from the other side, and did not
see you before. I hope we have not disturbed you much."

"Not in the least," he answered courteously, and rose as he spoke.