’But you’re big, Marjorie, and big people ought to be braver than little people!’

There was a long, whispered conversation after this, and I could not distinguish the words which were spoken.  But presently a small piece of pink paper was thrown over the wall, and fluttered down upon my palette.  I caught it up quickly, to prevent it from sticking to the paints, and I saw there was something printed on it.  It ran thus:—­

  There will be a short service on the shore on Sunday Morning at
  11 o’clock, when you are earnestly requested to be present.

  Subject:  WHAT ARE YOU?

‘Thank you,’ I said aloud.  ‘Who sent me this?’

There was no answer at first, then a little voice just above me said, ‘Both of us, sir.’

‘Come down and talk to me,’ I said; ’I can’t talk to children whom I can’t see.  Come out here and look at my picture.’

They came out presently hand in hand, a little girl of five in a blue tam-o’-shanter cap, a pale pink frock, and a white pinafore, and a boy of three, the merriest, most sturdy little fellow I thought I had ever seen.  His face was as round and rosy as an apple, his eyes were dark blue, and had the happiest and most roguish expression that it would be possible for eyes to have.  When the child laughed (and whenever was he not laughing?), every part of his face laughed together.  His eyes began it, his lips followed suit, even his nose was pressed into the service.  If a sunbeam could be caught and dressed up like a little boy, I think it would look something like that child.

‘Now,’ I said, ’that’s right; I like to see children’s faces when I talk to them; tell me your names to begin with.’

‘I’m Marjorie, sir,’ said the little girl, ‘and he’s Jack.’

‘Jack!’ I said; ’that’s my name, and a nice name too, isn’t it, little Jack?  Come and look at my picture, little Jack, and see if you think big Jack knows how to paint.’

By degrees they grew more at their ease, and chatted freely with me.  Marjorie told me that her father had sent the paper.  Father was going to preach on Sunday; he preached every Sunday, and numbers of people came, and Jack was in the choir.

What a dear little chorister, to be sure, a chubby little cherub if ever there was one!

‘Shall you come, big Jack?’ he said, patting my hand with his strong, sturdy little fist.

‘I don’t know,’ I said; ’if it’s a fine day, perhaps I shall want to get on with my picture.’

‘On Sunday?’ said the child in a shocked voice; ’it’s on Sunday father preaches, and you couldn’t paint on Sunday, could you?’

‘Well, I’ll see,’ I said; ’perhaps I’ll come and hear you sing, little Jack.’

‘Thank you, big Jack,’ he said, with a merry twinkle in his pretty blue eyes.

‘What is this preaching on the shore, Duncan?’ I asked.