declared, bestowing upon her aunt a shower of hearty kisses. "And I'm
never goin' to leave her, never, never--unless," she added thoughtfully,
"she gets a doctor man too, by-and-by. Then I'd just have to stay wif
daddy."

Darby giggled behind Aunt Catharine's back, and the others laughed
heartily.

"What would you say to Scotland?" asked Dr. King, well pleased to get
gracefully away from a subject which he had been feeling rather
personal. "That would be a change indeed--the very thing after South
Africa," he added, looking with a keen professional eye at Major Dene's
gaunt cheeks and too sharply outlined profile. "There are some pleasant
places on the west coast--bracing, yet not too cold. In my boyhood I
spent a summer in a village called St. Aidens. It was out of the way,
certainly, but you could not go to a more delightful spot."

"St. Aidens!" echoed Miss Turner, with a note of pleasure in her voice.
"Why, I stayed there one year too, long ago, with my father. Yes, let us
go to St. Aidens by all means," she said heartily. "Your mother could
come with us," she continued, addressing her nephew.--"And you," turning
to the doctor, "I daresay Alice will make you welcome if you will join
us during our stay."

So there and then the question was settled, and by the second week in
June to St. Aidens the family went.

* * * * *

It is the time of the yearly fair at St. Aidens. The buying and selling
are done, and now the people who have flocked thither in crowds are free
to enjoy the shows and performances which make the fair a festival to
be looked forward to and back upon as the chief outing of the season.

There are many items of attraction. Here Punch and Judy make public
their domestic broils for the benefit of the onlookers--old, young, and
middle-aged--whom this sample pair never fail to draw around them
wherever they appear. There an Indian juggler squats, the centre of a
gaping circle, as without a grimace he swallows swords, scissors,
knives, old nails, and scraps of metal that would tax the stomach of an
ostrich. Farther away is an Italian basket-maker, with olive skin and
oily manners; while leaning listlessly against the railing behind him is
a woman--his wife, probably--with dusky hair, and sad dark eyes which
hardly seem to see her green love-birds pecking knowingly at their pack
of dirty cards. Along near the pier a negro minstrel with his banjo is
singing one of the si