Just before Dinner. Mark jumped up. “You there, father! I did not hear you come in.” Doctor Robertson, tutor, half rose from his seat by the glowing library fire. “No, my boy, and I did not hear you come in.” “Why, uncle, you have been sitting there listening!” cried Dean. “To be sure I have. How could I help it, sir? I came in tired, and thought I would have a nap in my own chair till it... more...

Paying the Footing. Now, it don’t matter a bit what sort of clay a pot’s made of, if when it’s been tried in the fire it turns out sound and rings well when it’s struck. If I’m only common red ware, without even a bit of glaze on me, and yet answer the purpose well for which I’m made, why I’m a good pot, ain’t I, even if I only hold water? But what I hate is... more...

Mr John Dempster. “What would I do, sir? Why, if I were as poor as you say you are, and couldn’t get on here, I’d go abroad.” “But where, sir? where to?” “Anywhere. Don’t ask me. The world’s big enough and round enough for you, isn’t it?” “But without means, Mr Dempster?” “Yes, sir, without means. Work, sir—work. The same as I have done. I pay my poor rate, and I can’t... 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...

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...

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...

Aboard a gunboat. “Well, Mr Burnett, what is it?” “Beg pardon, sir.” “Now, my good boy, have I not told you always to speak out in a sharp, business-like way? How in the world do you expect to get on in your profession and become a smart officer, one who can give orders promptly to his men, if you begin in that stammering, hesitating style? Here, I’m busy; what do you want?” “I beg... 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...

Chapter One. Dr Martin wore a close-fitting black silk cap. Why? Well, the answer to the old riddle, “Why does a miller wear a white hat?” is, “To keep his head warm.” That answer would do for a reply to the question why this grey, anxious-looking Dr Martin wore a close-fitting black silk cap as he sat poring over an old book opposite Phil Carleton, who also bent over a book; but he was not... more...

Chapter One. In Benchers’ Inn. “My darling! Mine at last!” Ting-tang; ting-tang; ting-tang. Malcolm Stratton, F.Z.S., naturalist, a handsome, dark-complexioned man of eight-and-twenty, started and flushed like a girl as he hurriedly thrust the photograph he had been apostrophising into his breast pocket, and ran to the deep, dingy window of his chambers to look at the clock over the old hall of... more...