The church is large, recently built, and smells strongly of mortar and
varnish. In winter Mr. Carey has to preach to a scanty congregation; but
in summer, when the lodging-houses are full, there is always a goodly
number of worshippers.

The Jocelyns, whose home is in town, are accustomed to attend St.
George's, Hanover Square, and never feel perfectly comfortable in this
seaside church, which is, as Bee says, "so dreadfully new, and so
unfurnished." She wishes they could all worship out of doors, among the
rocks, with the blue sea murmuring near them; and yet she likes to hear
Tim's voice, as he stands among the other surpliced boys and leads the
singing.

Not that Tim is by any means an ideal chorister. His surplice makes his
brown skin look browner, and his curly head blacker than ever; and there
is not a heavenly expression in his quick dark eyes. He is not in the
least like one of those saintly boys we read of sometimes, who sing and
lift their glances upward, and pass gently and speedily away from this
wicked world. Judging from Tim's robust appearance he has many a year of
earthly life before him, and many a hot battle to fight with the flesh
and the devil.

But it is a marvellous voice that comes from the lad's massive throat; a
voice that goes up like a lark's song, carrying heavy hearts to higher
regions with its notes. In future days there are some who will remember
that morning's anthem, which Tim sings with all his triumphant power and
thrilling sweetness. A few fishermen, standing just within the doors,
listen entranced, and one rugged old fellow puts up a hard hand to hide
his eyes.

"The floods have lifted up, O Lord, the floods have lifted up their
voice; the floods lift up their waves.

"The Lord on high is mightier than the noise of many waters, yea, than
the mighty waves of the sea.

"Thy testimonies are very sure; holiness becometh Thine house, O Lord,
for ever."

The service comes to an end, and Aunt Hetty and her children walk
homeward along the terraces, under a glaring sun. The sea is still calm,
but a light breeze is stirring, creeping off the water and breathing
across the hot sand and shingle. Bee gives a deep sigh of satisfaction
as the zephyr kisses her rosy cheeks.

"It's going to be just a little cooler, Empey," she says, as they draw
near Nelson Lodge.

"Yes; it must be jolly on the sea to-day," he remarks, following a
little cutter with longing eyes.

When the midday m