I hoped that the children would pass us by, and would go to a large group of fishermen standing on the shore just beyond us.  But I was not to escape thus.  Marjorie came up to Tom and presented him with a paper, and she was going to give one to me, but my little friend stopped her, ‘No, no, Marjorie,’ he said in his most fascinating tones, ’let me give one to my own Mr. Jack.  I always give you one my own self, don’t I, big Jack?’

I patted him on the head and took the paper, but I did not answer, and the children passed on.  Tom opened his paper and read it aloud,—­

’"There will be a short service on the shore next Sunday morning.”  Oh, indeed,’ he said, ’that’s what they’re after, 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.