It was an unusually hot summer, and London was emptying fast.  Every one who could afford it was going either to the moors or to the sea, and I felt very much inclined to follow their example.  My father and mother had died when I was quite a child, and the maiden aunt who had brought me up had just passed away, and I had mourned her death very deeply, for she had been both father and mother to me.  I felt that I needed change of scene, for I had been up for many nights with her during her last illness, and I had had my rest broken for so long, that I found it very difficult to sleep, and in many ways I was far from well.  My aunt had left all her little property to me, so that the means to leave London and to take a suitable holiday were not wanting.  The question was, where should I go?  I was anxious to combine, if possible, pleasure and business—­that is to say, I wished to choose some quiet place where I could get bracing air and thorough change of scene, and where I could also find studies for my new picture, which was (at least, so I fondly dreamed) to find a place in the Academy the following spring.

It was whilst I was looking for a suitable spot that Tom Bernard, my great friend and confidant, found one for me.

‘Jack, old fellow,’ he said, thrusting a torn newspaper into my hand, ‘read that, old man.’

The newspaper was doubled down tightly, and a great red cross of Tom’s making showed me the part he wished me to read.

  Runswick bay.

This charming seaside resort is not half so well known as it deserves to be.  For the lover of the beautiful, for the man with an artistic eye, it possesses a charm which words would fail to describe.  The little bay is a favourite resort for artists; they, at least, know how to appreciate its beauties.  It would be well for any who may desire to visit this wonderfully picturesque and enchanting spot to secure hotel or lodging-house accommodation as early as possible, for the demand for rooms is, in August and September, far greater than the supply.

‘Well, what do you think of it?’ said Tom.

‘It sounds just the thing,’ I said; ‘fresh air and plenty to paint.’

‘Shall you go?’

‘Yes, to-morrow,’ I replied; ‘the sooner the better.’

My bag was soon packed, my easel and painting materials were collected, and the very next morning I was on my way into Yorkshire.

It was evening when I reached the end of my long, tiring railway journey; and when, hot and dusty, I alighted at a village which lay about two miles from my destination.  I saw no sign of beauty as I walked from the station; the country was slightly undulating in parts, but as a rule nothing met my gaze but a long flat stretch of field after field, covered, as the case might be, with grass or corn.  Harebells and pink campion grew on the banks, and the meadows were full of ox-eye daisies; but I saw nothing besides that was in the least attractive, and certainly nothing of which I could make a picture.