CHAPTER I. The birds were singing their best one spring morning, and that means a great deal, for they can sing down in the New Forest on a sunny morning in May, and there was quite a chorus of joy to welcome the Skipper and Dot as they went out through the iron gate at the bottom of the garden. The Skipper had on his last new suit of white duck, bound with blue, and his straw hat with the dark band... more...

A Rough Suitor. “Be quiet! What a silly little fluttering dove it is, struggling like this, ruffling all your plumes, and making your face so red. But how it becomes you!” “Mr Saul Harrington, how dare you!” “Because I love you so, you little beauty. There—and there—and there!” The kisses were given in spite of the frightened looks and struggles; but at each kiss... more...

A Peep at Tolcarne. “Ed—Ward!” “Yes, mum.” A stiff, high-shouldered footman turned round as he reached the breakfast-room door. “Are you sure Sir Hampton has been called?” “Yes, mum.” “And did Smith take up her ladyship’s hot water?” “Yes, mum.” “Are the young ladies coming down?” “They went out for a walk nearly an hour ago, mum.” “Dear me! and such a damp... more...

Why I went to my Uncle’s. “I don’t know what to do with him. I never saw such a boy—a miserable little coward, always in mischief and doing things he ought not to do, and running about the place with his whims and fads. I wish you’d send him right away, I do.” My aunt went out of the room, and I can’t say she banged the door, but she shut it very hard, leaving me and my uncle face to face... more...

Off at last! “Ahoy, there! All on board?” “Yes; all right.” “Got all your tackle?” “I think so.” “Haven’t forgotten your cartridges!” “No; here they are.” “I’ll be bound to say you’ve forgotten something. Yes: fishing-tackle?” “That we haven’t, Mr Wilson,” said a fresh voice, that of a bright-looking lad of sixteen, as he rose up in the long boat lying by the... more...

The Curate Grows Suspicious; and Takes his Stick. “Do what, miss?” said Dally Watlock. “That! There, you did it again.” “La, miss; I on’y thought my face might be a bit smudgy, and I wiped it.” “Don’t tell me a falsehood, Dally. I know what it means. You felt guilty, and your face burned.” “La, miss; I don’t know what you mean.” “Then I’ll tell you, Dally. You are growing... more...

Pleasant Receptions. “Ax.” “I was asking, or axing, as you call it, my man. I said, Is that Dumford, down there in the valley?” “And I said axe, or arks, as you call it, my man,” was the surly, defiant reply. The last speaker looked up savagely from the block of stone on which he was seated, and the questioner looked down from where he stood on the rough track. There was a quiet,... more...

“In the West Countree.” “Take care, Mr Luke Vine, sir. There’s a big one coming.” The thin, little, sharp-featured, grey-haired man on a rock looked sharply round, saw the big one coming, stooped, picked up a large basket, and, fishing-rod in hand, stepped back and climbed up a few feet, just as a heavy swell, which seemed to glide along rapidly over the otherwise calm sea, heaved, flooded... more...

The Mackhai of Dun Roe. “Look here, Scoodrach, if you call me she again, I’ll kick you!” “I didna ca’ you she. I only said if she’d come ten the hoose aifter she had the parritch—” “Well, what did I say?” “Say? Why, she got in a passion.” Whop! Flop! The sound of a back-handed slap in the chest, followed by a kick, both delivered by Kenneth Mackhai, the recipient being a... more...

In the Old Fen-Land. “Oh, how sweet the pines smell, Marion! I declare it’s quite bliss to get down here in these wilds, with the free wind blowing the London smoke out of your back hair, and no one to criticise and make remarks. I won’t go to the sea-side any more: pier and band, and esplanade and promenade; in pink to-day and in blue to-morrow, and the next day in green; and then a bow here and... more...