“Now, Miss, I could not, no, that I could’nt, refuse any one who asked me so pretty as that lady did you.  If she had been angry, and commanded you back, why bad begets bad, and tit for tat you know, and I should not so much have wondered:  but, Miss, you should not vex her.  No, don’t be angry with an old man, I have seen so much of the evils of young folks taking their own way.  Look here, young lady,” said the weather beaten sailor, as he pointed to a piece of crape round his hat; “this comes of being fond of one’s own way.”

Edith was arrested, and approached the stile, on the other side of which Emilie Schomberg still leant, listening to the fisherman’s talk with her pupil.

“You see, Miss,” said he, “I have brought her round, she were a little contrary at first, but the squall is over, and she is going home your way.  Oh, a capital good rule, that of your’s, Miss!” “What,” said Emilie smiling, “Why, that ‘soft answer,’ that kind way.  I see a good deal of the ways of nurses with children, ah, and of governesses, and mothers, and fathers too, as I sit about on the sea shore, mending my nets.  I ain’t fit for much else now, you see, Miss, though I have seen a deal of service, and as I sit sometimes watching the little ones playing on the sand, and with the shingle, I keep my ears open, for I can’t bear to see children grieved, and sometimes I put in a word to the nurse maids.  Bless me! to see how some of ’em whip up the children in the midst of their play.  Neither with your leave, nor by your leave; ’here, come along, you dirty, naughty boy, here’s a wet frock!  Come, this minute, you tiresome child, it’s dinner time.’  Now that ain’t what I call fair play, Miss.  I say you ought to speak civil, even to a child; and then, the crying, and the shaking, and the pulling up the gangway.  Many and many is the little squaller I go and pacify, and carry as well as I can up the cliff:  but I beg pardon, Miss, hope I don’t offend.  Only I was afraid, Miss there was a little awkward, and would give you trouble.”

“Indeed,” said Emilie, “I am much obliged to you; where do you live?”

“I live,” said the old man, “I may say, a great part of my life, under the sky, in summer time, but I lodge with my son, and he lives between this and Brooke.  In winter time, since the rheumatics has got hold of me, I am drawn to the fire side, but my son’s wife, she don’t take after him, bless him.  She’s a bit of a spirit, and when she talks more than I like, why I wish myself at sea again, for an angry woman’s tongue is worse than a storm at sea, any day; if it was’nt for the children, bless ’em, I should not live with ’em, but I am very partial to them.”

“Well, we must say good night, now,” said Emilie, “or we shall be late home; I dare say we shall see you on the shore some day; good night.”  “Good night to you, ma’am; good night, young lady; be friends, won’t you?”

Edith’s hand was given, but it was not pleasant to be conquered, and she was a little sullen on the way home.  They parted at the door of Edith’s house.  Edith went in, to join a cheerful family in a comfortable and commodious room; Emilie, to a scantily furnished, and shabbily genteel apartment, let to her and a maiden aunt by a straw bonnet maker in the town.