“Uncommon fash’nubble et makes the beach look, sir, a’ready,” added Peter.

Some mental reservation seemed to lurk behind this criticism.  Mr. Fogo looked dubiously from the Twins to Caleb, who stood with his eyes fixed on his handiwork.

“Axin’ your pard’n, sir, an’ makin’ so free as to mention et,” began Peter at length, pulling off his hat and twirling the brim between his fingers, “but us was a bit taken aback, not understandin’ as fash’nubbleness was to begin so smart; or us wou’dn’t have introoded—­spesh’ly Tamsin.  Tamsin was thinkin’ this mornin’ as a pound of fresh butter might be acceptable to the gentl’m’n down at Kit’s House, wi’ ha’f a dozen fresh eggs or so, ’cos her Minorcy hen began to lay agen last week, an’ the spickaty Hamburg as allays lays double yolks; an’ Paul an’ me agreed you wudn’ be above acceptin’ a little present o’ this natur’, not seemin’ proud, an’ Tamsin shou’d bring et hersel’, the eggs bein’ hers in a manner o’ speakin’.  But us was not wishful to introod, sir, an’ iver since us seed the board here, her’s been keepin’ her distance in the boat yonder; on’y us stepped ashore to larn ef there was anything us cou’d do to make things ship-shape an’ fitty for ’ee.”

At the end of this long address, Peter, whose mahogany face was several shades deeper, pulled up, and resumed his hat.

“Ship-shape an’ fitty—­not wishful for to introod.  That’s so, Peter,” echoed his brother.

Mr. Fogo looked at the pair helplessly, and again at Caleb, whose eyes were obstinately averted.

“Caleb!”

“Sir.”

“Ask Miss Dearlove if she would mind stepping ashore.”

With a sudden brightening of face, Caleb called her name.  Tamsin looked up.

“Ef ’ee please, you’m to come ashore, to wance!”

The girl rowed a couple of strokes, grounded the boat, and stepped lightly ashore with a big basket and an unembarrassed glance at the Notice.

“There’s a few young potatoes at the bottom,” she said, with a curtsey, as she handed her gift to Mr. Fogo.  “They’re the earliest and best anywhere in these parts.  Can you cook potatoes?” she asked, suddenly turning to Caleb.  Beneath her sun-bonnet her pretty cheek was flushed, and her chin thrust forward with just a shadow of defiance.

“Iss, to be sure,” grinned Caleb.  “Why, us does our own washin’.”

Tamsin’s eyes travelled without bashfulness over the array upon the beach.

“Pretty washing, I expect!” She walked up and took some of the clothes into her hand.  “Look here—­not half-wrung—­and some fallen in the mud and dirtied worse than ever.”

With fine contempt she moved among the clothes, wrung them, spread them out again, and even returned with some to the wash-tub.  Like four whipped schoolboys the males looked on as she tucked up the sleeves of her neat print gown.

“Soap, too, left to float in the wash-tub, and—­salt water I declare!  Caleb, empty this and get some soft water from the old butt by the back door.  Oh, you poor, helpless baby!”