er, is it? Distributing
notices for some Methodist meeting. Is that where Christie holds forth?'

'Yes,' I said, 'he preaches every Sunday.'

'Well, Mr. Christie,' he went on, 'you won't have _me_ there to
hear you. I hate those canting meetings, don't you, Jack?
_Subject_. Ah, he tells us his subject beforehand, does he? Very
kind of him, I'm sure! _Subject: Where are you going_? Ah,' said
Tom, 'that's soon answered: I'm going to Scarborough, old fellow, and a
jolly good day I hope to have there'; and he threw the little pink paper
into the air, and the wind carried it far out to sea.

[Illustration]

All this time I had never spoken a word. A great battle was going on in
my heart. Conscience was speaking very loudly, and telling me that I
could not possibly take my pleasure on my Master's own day, but the
tempter's voice was arguing that the time to speak had not yet come, and
that perhaps for this once it would be better to yield to Tom's wishes,
and that I might talk to him quietly about it, and make a fresh start
after our return to London.

And so the day wore away, and evening came, and Tom had no idea whatever
that I had even hesitated about going with him to Scarborough. I never
spent a more unhappy day. I avoided Mr. Christie, lest he should say
anything to me about the service on the following day. I was not even
happy with Duncan. Tom had gone off to Saltburn, leaving me, as he
supposed, to put some finishing touches to my picture; but I had no
heart for painting, and only got my easel and painting materials out to
put them away again directly.

Polly was in good spirits that day, for little John was so much better
that he was able to sit on the floor and play, and, as I stood looking
out of my small casement window, I watched her washing up in a tub
standing on a wooden stool outside her door, and I heard her singing to
herself as she did so. Most of the visitors had left Runswick Bay now,
for it was late in the season, but the shore was covered with the
village children--boys and girls without shoes and stockings, wading in
the pools and running far out into the shallow sea. It was a pretty
sight, the grey, quiet water, the strips of yellow sand, and the cliff
covered with grass and flowers.

But I could not enjoy the scene that Saturday evening; even my artistic
eye, of which I used sometimes to boast, failed me then. I was feeling
thoroughly uncomfortable, and the most lovely view on earth would