This story, At the Bay, is a Mid-frequency Reader and has been adapted to suit readers with a vocabulary of 6000 words. It is available in three versions of different difficulty. This version is adapted from the Project Gutenberg version. It was adapted by Philippa Larkindale.

  AT THE BAY.

I.

Very early morning. The sun was not yet risen, and the whole of Crescent  Bay was hidden under a white sea - mist. The big bush - covered hills at the  back were smothered. You could not see where they ended and the fields  and bungalows began. The sandy road was gone and the fields and  bungalows the other side of it; there were no white dunes covered with  reddish grass beyond them; there was nothing to mark which was beach and  where was the sea. The grass was wet. Big drops of moisture  hung on the bushes and just did not fall; the silvery, fluffy toi - toi  was limp on its long stalks, and all the marigolds and the pinks in the  bungalow gardens were bowed to the earth with wetness. Wet were the  cold fuchsias, round pearls of moisture lay on the flat nasturtium leaves. It  looked as though the sea had beaten up softly in the darkness, as though  one immense wave had come rippling, rippling -  - how far? Perhaps if you  had woken up in the middle of the night you might have seen a big fish  flicking in at the window and gone again....

Ah - Aah! sounded the sleepy sea. And from the bush there came the sound  of little streams flowing, quickly, lightly, slipping between the smooth  stones, gushing into ferny basins and out again; and there was the  splashing of big drops on large leaves, and something else -  - what was  it? -  - a faint stirring and shaking, the snapping of a small branch and then such  silence that it seemed some one was listening.

Round the corner of Crescent Bay, between the piled - up masses of broken  rock, a flock of sheep came trotting. They were huddled together, a  small, tossing, woolly mass, and their thin, stick - like legs trotted  along quickly as if the cold and the quiet had frightened them. Behind  them an old sheep - dog, his soaking paws covered with sand, ran along  with his nose to the ground, but carelessly, as if thinking of something  else. And then in the rocky gateway the shepherd himself appeared. He  was a lean, upright old man, in an old coat that was covered with a  web of tiny drops, velvet trousers tied under the knee, and a big hat  with a folded blue handkerchief round the brim. One hand was crammed  into his belt, the other grasped a beautifully smooth yellow stick. And  as he walked, taking his time, he kept up a very soft light whistling,  an airy, far - away tune that sounded sad and tender. The old  dog cut an ancient jump or two and then drew up sharp, ashamed of his  light - heartedness, and walked a few dignified paces by his master's side. The sheep  ran forward in little rushes; they began to baa, and ghostly  flocks and herds answered them from under the sea. "Baa! Baaa!" For a  time they seemed to be always on the same piece of ground. There ahead  was stretched the sandy road with shallow puddles; the same soaking  bushes showed on either side and the same shadowy fence posts. Then  something immense came into view; an enormous shock - haired giant with  his arms stretched out. It was the big gum - tree outside Mrs. Stubbs'  shop, and as they passed by there was a strong but pleasant smell.  And now big spots of light gleamed in the mist. The shepherd stopped  whistling; he rubbed his red nose and wet beard on his wet sleeve and,  screwing up his eyes, glanced in the direction of the sea. The sun  was rising. It was marvellous how quickly the mist thinned, sped away,  dissolved, rolled up from the bush and was gone  as if in a hurry to escape; big twists and curls fought and shouldered  each other as the silvery beams broadened. The far - away sky -  - a bright,  pure blue -  - was reflected in the puddles, and the drops, swimming along  the telegraph poles, flashed into points of light. Now the leaping,  glittering sea was so bright it made one's eyes ache to look at it. The  shepherd drew a pipe, the bowl as small as an acorn, out of his breast  pocket, fumbled for a chunk of  tobacco, took a few  shavings and stuffed the bowl. He was a grave, fine - looking old man.  As he lit up and the blue smoke wreathed his head, the dog, watching,  looked proud of him.

"Baa! Baaa!" The sheep spread out into a fan. They were just clear of  the summer colony before the first sleeper turned over and lifted a  sleepy head; their cry sounded in the dreams of little children... who  lifted their arms to drag down, to cuddle the darling little woolly  lambs of sleep. Then the first inhabitant appeared; it was the Burnells'  cat Florrie, sitting on the gatepost, far too early as usual, looking  for their milk - girl. When she saw the old sheep - dog she sprang up  quickly, arched her back, drew in her head, and seemed to give a  little shiver. "Ugh! What a coarse, revolting creature!" said  Florrie. But the old sheep - dog, not looking up, trotted past, flinging  out his legs from side to side. Only one of his ears twitched to prove  that he saw, and thought her a silly young female.

The breeze of morning lifted in the bush and the smell of leaves and wet  black earth mingled with the sharp smell of the sea. Myriads of birds  were singing. A bird flew over the shepherd's head and, perching on  the top of a bush, it turned to the sun, ruffling its small breast  feathers. And now they had passed the fisherman's hut, passed the  charred - looking little hut where Leila the milk - girl lived with her  old Gran. The sheep strayed over a yellow swamp and Wag, the sheep - dog,  padded after, rounded them up and headed them for the steeper, narrower  rocky pass that led out of Crescent Bay and towards Daylight Cove. "Baa!  Baa!" Faint the cry came as they rocked along the fast - drying road. The  shepherd put away his pipe, dropping it into his breast - pocket so that  the little bowl hung over. And immediately the soft airy whistling began  again. Wag ran out along a ledge of rock after something that smelled,  and ran back again disgusted. Then pushing, nudging, hurrying, the sheep  rounded the bend and the shepherd followed after out of sight.

  II.

A few moments later the back door of one of the bungalows opened, and a  figure in a broad - striped bathing suit ran down the field, cleared  the gate, rushed through the long grass into the hollow, staggered  up the sandy dune, and raced for dear life over the big   stones, over the cold, wet pebbles, on to the hard sand that gleamed  like oil. Splish - Splosh! Splish - Splosh! The water bubbled round his  legs as Stanley Burnell waded out . First man in as usual! He'd  beaten them all again. And he swooped down to wet his head and neck.

"Hail, brother! All hail, Thou Mighty One!" A velvety bass voice came  booming over the water.

Great Scott! Damnation take it! Stanley lifted up to see a dark head  bobbing far out and an arm lifted. It was Jonathan Trout -  - there before  him! "Glorious morning!" sang the voice.

"Yes, very fine!" said Stanley briefly. Why the dickens didn't the  fellow stick to his part of the sea? Why should he come rushing over to  this exact spot? Stanley gave a kick, a lunge and struck out, swimming  strongly. But Jonathan was a match for him. Up he came, his black hair  sleek on his forehead, his short beard sleek.

"I had an extraordinary dream last night!" he shouted.

What was the matter with the man? This enthusiasm for conversation irritated  Stanley beyond words. And it was always the same -  - always some rubbish  about a dream he'd had, or some silly idea he'd got hold of, or some  rot he'd been reading. Stanley turned over on his back and kicked with  his legs till he was a living fountain. But even then... "I dreamed I  was hanging over a terrifically high cliff, shouting to some one below."  You would be! thought Stanley. He could stick no more of it. He stopped  splashing. "Look here, Trout," he said, "I'm in rather a hurry this  morning."

"You're WHAT?" Jonathan was so surprised -  - or pretended to be -  - that he  sank under the water, then reappeared again blowing.

"All I mean is," said Stanley, "I've no time to -  - to -  - to fool about.  I want to get this over. I'm in a hurry. I've work to do this  morning -  - see?"

Jonathan was gone before Stanley had finished. "Pass, friend!" said the  bass voice gently, and he slid away through the water with scarcely  a ripple... But curse the fellow! He'd ruined Stanley's bathe. What an  idiot the man was! Stanley struck out to sea again, and  then as quickly swam in again, and away he rushed up the beach. He felt  cheated.

Jonathan stayed a little longer in the water. He floated, gently moving  his hands like fins, and letting the sea rock his long, skinny body. It  was curious, but in spite of everything he was fond of Stanley Burnell.  True, he had a wicked desire to tease him sometimes, to poke fun at  him, but at bottom he was sorry for the fellow. There was something  pathetic in his determination to make a job of everything. You couldn't  help feeling he'd be caught out one day, and then what an almighty  cropper he'd come! At that moment an immense wave lifted Jonathan, rode  past him, and broke along the beach with a joyful sound. What a beauty!  And now there came another. That was the way to live -  - carelessly,  recklessly, spending oneself. He got on to his feet and began to wade  towards the shore, pressing his toes into the firm, wrinkled sand. To  take things easy, not to fight against the ebb and flow of life, but to  give way to it -  - that was what was needed. It was this tension that was  all wrong. To live -  - to live! And the perfect morning, so fresh and fair,  as though laughing at its own beauty, seemed to  whisper, "Why not?"

But now he was out of the water Jonathan turned blue with cold. He ached  all over; it was as though some one was wringing the blood out of him.  And stalking up the beach, shivering, all his muscles tight, he too felt  his bathe was spoilt. He'd stayed in too long.

  III.

Beryl was alone in the living - room when Stanley appeared, wearing a blue  suit, a stiff collar and a spotted tie. He looked almost uncannily  clean and brushed; he was going to town for the day. Dropping into his  chair, he pulled out his watch and put it beside his plate.

"I've just got twenty - five minutes," he said. "You might go and see if  the breakfast is ready, Beryl?"

"Mother's just gone for it," said Beryl. She sat down at the table and  poured out his tea.

"Thanks!" Stanley took a sip. "Hallo!" he said in an astonished voice,  "you've forgotten the sugar."

"Oh, sorry!" But even then Beryl didn't help him; she pushed the basin  across. What did this mean? As Stanley helped himself his blue  eyes widened; they seemed to quiver. He shot a quick glance at his  sister - in - law and leaned back.

"Nothing wrong, is there?" he asked carelessly, fingering his collar.

Beryl's head was bent; she turned her plate in her fingers.

"Nothing," said her light voice. Then she too looked up, and smiled at  Stanley. "Why should there be?"

"O - oh! No reason at all as far as I know. I thought you seemed rather -  - "

At that moment the door opened and the three little girls appeared, each  carrying a plate of cereal. They were dressed alike in blue jerseys and  pants; their brown legs were bare, and each had her hair pinned up in what was called a horse's tail. Behind them came Mrs. Fairfield with the tray.

"Carefully, children," she warned. But they were taking the very  greatest care. They loved being allowed to carry things. "Have you said  good morning to your father?"

"Yes, grandma." They settled themselves on the bench opposite Stanley  and Beryl.

"Good morning, Stanley!" Old Mrs. Fairfield gave him his plate.

"Morning, mother! How's the boy?"

"Splendid! He only woke up once last night. What a perfect morning!" The  old woman paused, her hand on the loaf of bread, to gaze out of the  open door into the garden. The sea sounded. Through the wide - open  window streamed the sun on to the yellow varnished walls and bare floor.  Everything on the table flashed and glittered. In the middle there was  an old salad bowl filled with yellow and red flowers. She smiled,  and a look of deep content shone in her eyes.

"You might cut me a slice of that bread, mother," said Stanley. "I've  only twelve and a half minutes before the coach passes. Has anyone given  my shoes to the servant girl?"

"Yes, they're ready for you." Mrs. Fairfield was quite unruffled.

"Oh, Kezia! Why are you such a messy child!" cried Beryl despairingly.

"Me, Aunt Beryl?" Kezia stared at her. What had she done now? She had  only dug a river down the middle of her cereal, filled it, and was  eating the banks away. But she did that every single morning, and no one  had said a word up till now.

"Why can't you eat your food properly like Isabel and Lottie?" How  unfair grown - ups are!

"But Lottie always makes a floating island, don't you, Lottie?"

"I don't," said Isabel smartly. "I just sprinkle mine with sugar and put  on the milk and finish it. Only babies play with their food."

Stanley pushed back his chair and got up.

"Would you get me those shoes, mother? And, Beryl, if you've finished,  I wish you'd cut down to the gate and stop the coach. Run in to your  mother, Isabel, and ask her where my bowler hat's been put. Wait a  minute -  - have you children been playing with my stick?"

"No, father!"

"But I put it here." Stanley began to sound angry. "I remember distinctly  putting it in this corner. Now, who's had it? There's no time to lose.  Look sharp! The stick's got to be found."

Even Alice, the servant - girl, was drawn into the chase. "You haven't  been using it to poke the kitchen fire with by any chance?"

Stanley dashed into the bedroom where Linda was lying. "Most  extraordinary thing. I can't keep a single possession to myself. They've  made away with my stick, now!"

"Stick, dear? What stick?" Linda's vagueness on these occasions could  not be real, Stanley decided. Would nobody sympathize with him?

"Coach! Coach, Stanley!" Beryl's voice cried from the gate.

Stanley waved his arm to Linda. "No time to say good - bye!" he cried. And  he meant that as a punishment to her.

He snatched his bowler hat, dashed out of the house, and swung down the  garden path. Yes, the coach was there waiting, and Beryl, leaning over  the open gate, was laughing up at somebody or other just as if nothing  had happened. The heartlessness of women! The way they took it for  granted it was your job to slave away for them while they didn't even  take the trouble to see that your walking - stick wasn't lost. Kelly  trailed his whip across the horses.

"Good - bye, Stanley," called Beryl, sweetly and gaily. It was easy enough  to say good - bye! And there she stood, idle, shading her eyes with her  hand. The worst of it was Stanley had to shout good - bye too, for the  sake of appearances. Then he saw her turn, give a little skip and run  back to the house. She was glad to be rid of him!

Yes, she was thankful. Into the living - room she ran and called "He's  gone!" Linda cried from her room: "Beryl! Has Stanley gone?" Old Mrs.  Fairfield appeared, carrying the boy in his little jacket.

"Gone?"

"Gone!"

Oh, the relief, the difference it made to have the man out of the house.  Their very voices were changed as they called to one another; they  sounded warm and loving and as if they shared a secret. Beryl went over  to the table. "Have another cup of tea, mother. It's still hot." She  wanted, somehow, to celebrate the fact that they could do what they  liked now. There was no man to disturb them; the whole perfect day was  theirs.

"No, thank you, child," said old Mrs. Fairfield, but the way at that  moment she tossed the boy up and said "a - goos - a - goos - a - ga!" to him  meant that she felt the same. The little girls ran into the field like  chickens let out of a cage.

Even Alice, the servant - girl, washing up the dishes in the kitchen,  caught the infection and used the precious tank water in a perfectly  reckless fashion.

"Oh, these men!" said she, and she plunged the teapot into the bowl and  held it under the water even after it had stopped bubbling, as if it too  was a man and drowning was too good for them.

  IV.

"Wait for me, Isa - bel! Kezia, wait for me!"

There was poor little Lottie, left behind again, because she found it so  fearfully hard to get over the gate by herself. When she stood on the  first rung her knees began to wobble; she grasped the post. Then you had  to put one leg over. But which leg? She never could decide. And when she  did finally put one leg over with a sort of stamp of despair -  - then the  feeling was awful. She was half in the field still and half in the  long grass. She clutched the post desperately and lifted up her  voice. "Wait for me!"

"No, don't you wait for her, Kezia!" said Isabel. "She's such a little  silly. She's always making a fuss. Come on!" And she tugged Kezia's  jersey. "You can use my bucket if you come with me," she said kindly.  "It's bigger than yours." But Kezia couldn't leave Lottie all by  herself. She ran back to her. By this time Lottie was very red in the  face and breathing heavily.

"Here, put your other foot over," said Kezia.

"Where?"

Lottie looked down at Kezia as if from a mountain height.

"Here where my hand is." Kezia patted the place.

"Oh, there do you mean!" Lottie gave a deep sigh and put the second foot  over.

"Now -  - sort of turn round and sit down and slide," said Kezia.

"But there's nothing to sit down on, Kezia," said Lottie.

She managed it at last, and once it was over she shook herself and began  to beam.

"I'm getting better at climbing over gates, aren't I, Kezia?"

Lottie's was a very hopeful nature.

The pink and the blue sunhat followed Isabel's bright red sunhat  up that sliding, slipping hill. At the top they paused to decide where  to go and to have a good stare at who was there already. Seen from  behind, standing against the skyline, pointing largely with their  spades, they looked like minute puzzled explorers.

The whole family of Samuel Josephs was there already with their  lady - help, who sat on a camp - stool and kept order with a whistle that  she wore tied round her neck, and a small cane with which she directed  operations. The Samuel Josephs never played by themselves or managed  their own game. If they did, it ended in the boys pouring water down  the girls' necks or the girls trying to put little black crabs into the  boys' pockets. So Mrs. S. J. and the poor lady - help drew up what she  called a "programme" every morning to keep them "amused and out of  mischief." It was all competitions or races or round games. Everything  began with a piercing blast of the whistle and ended with  another. There were even prizes -  - large, rather dirty paper parcels which  the lady - help with a sour little smile drew out of a bulging string  kit. The Samuel Josephs fought fearfully for the prizes and cheated and  pinched one another's arms -  - they were all expert at pinching. The only time  the Burnell children ever played with them Kezia had got a prize,  and when she undid three bits of paper she found a very small rusty  button - hook. She couldn't understand why they made such a fuss....

But they never played with the Samuel Josephs now or even went to their  parties. The Samuel Josephs were always giving children's parties at  the Bay and there was always the same food. A big basin of  very brown fruit - salad, buns cut into four and a jug full of  something the lady - help called "Limonadear." And you went away in the  evening with half the lace torn off your dress or something spilled all  down the front of your clothes, leaving the Samuel Josephs  leaping like savages on their lawn. No! They were too awful.    On the other side of the beach, close down to the water, two little  boys, their trousers rolled up, twinkled like spiders. One was digging,  the other ran in and out of the water, filling a small bucket. They  were the Trout boys, Pip and Rags. But Pip was so busy digging and Rags  was so busy helping that they didn't see their little cousins until they  were quite close.

"Look!" said Pip. "Look what I've discovered." And he showed them an old  wet, squashed - looking boot. The three little girls stared.

"Whatever are you going to do with it?" asked Kezia.

"Keep it, of course!" Pip was very scornful. "It's a find -  - see?"

Yes, Kezia saw that. All the same....

"There's lots of things buried in the sand," explained Pip. "They get  chucked up from wrecks. Treasure. Why -  - you might find -  - "

"But why does Rags have to keep on pouring water in?" asked Lottie.

"Oh, that's to moisten it," said Pip, "to make the work a bit easier.  Keep it up, Rags."

And good little Rags ran up and down, pouring in the water that turned  brown like cocoa.

"Here, shall I show you what I found yesterday?" said Pip mysteriously,  and he stuck his spade into the sand. "Promise not to tell."

They promised.

"Say, cross my heart."

The little girls said it.

Pip took something out of his pocket, rubbed it a long time on the front  of his jersey, then breathed on it and rubbed it again.

"Now turn round!" he ordered.

They turned round.

"All look the same way! Keep still! Now!"

And his hand opened; he held up to the light something that flashed,  that winked, that was a most lovely green.

"It's an emerald," said Pip solemnly.

"Is it really, Pip?" Even Isabel was impressed.

The lovely green thing seemed to dance in Pip's fingers. Aunt Beryl had  an emerald in a ring, but it was a very small one. This one was as big as  a star and far more beautiful.

  V.

As the morning lengthened whole parties appeared over the sand - hills  and came down on the beach to bathe. It was understood that at eleven  o'clock the women and children of the summer colony had the sea to  themselves. First the women undressed, pulled on their bathing dresses  and covered their heads in hideous caps like sponge bags; then the  children were unbuttoned. The beach was strewn with little heaps of  clothes and shoes; the big summer hats, with stones on them to keep them  from blowing away, looked like immense shells. It was strange that even  the sea seemed to sound differently when all those leaping, laughing  figures ran into the waves. Old Mrs. Fairfield, in a purple cotton dress  and a black hat tied under the chin, gathered her little brood and got  them ready. The little Trout boys whipped their shirts over their heads,  and away the five sped, while their grandma sat with one hand in her  knitting - bag ready to draw out the ball of wool when she was satisfied  they were safely in.

The firm compact little girls were not half so brave as the tender,  delicate - looking little boys. Pip and Rags, shivering, crouching down,  slapping the water, never hesitated. But Isabel, who could swim twelve  strokes, and Kezia, who could nearly swim eight, only followed on the  strict understanding they were not to be splashed. As for Lottie, she  didn't follow at all. She liked to be left to go in her own way,  please. And that way was to sit down at the edge of the water, her legs  straight, her knees pressed together, and to make vague motions with her  arms as if she expected to be taken out to sea. But when a bigger wave  than usual, came along in her direction, she scrambled to her feet with a face of horror and flew up the beach  again.

"Here, mother, keep those for me, will you?"

Two rings and a thin gold chain were dropped into Mrs Fairfield's lap.

"Yes, dear. But aren't you going to bathe here?"

"No - o," Beryl drawled. She sounded vague. "I'm undressing farther along.  I'm going to bathe with Mrs. Harry Kember."

"Very well." But Mrs. Fairfield's lips set. She disapproved of Mrs Harry  Kember. Beryl knew it.

Poor old mother, she smiled, as she skimmed over the stones. Poor old  mother! Old! Oh, what joy, what bliss it was to be young....

"You look very pleased," said Mrs. Harry Kember. She sat hunched up on  the stones, her arms round her knees, smoking.

"It's such a lovely day," said Beryl, smiling down at her.

"Oh my dear!" Mrs. Harry Kember's voice sounded as though she knew  better than that. But then her voice always sounded as though she  knew something better about you than you did yourself. She was a long,  strange - looking woman with narrow hands and feet. Her face, too, was  long and narrow and exhausted - looking; even her fair curled fringe  looked burnt out and withered. She was the only woman at the Bay who  smoked, and she smoked non-stop, keeping the cigarette between her  lips while she talked, and only taking it out when the ash was so long  you could not understand why it did not fall. When she was not playing  bridge -  - she played bridge every day of her life -  - she spent her time  lying in the full glare of the sun. She could stand any amount of  it; she never had enough. All the same, it did not seem to warm her.  Dry, withered, cold, she lay stretched on the stones like a piece  of tossed - up driftwood. The women at the Bay thought she was very, very  uncultured. Her lack of vanity, her speech, the way she treated men as though  she was one of them, and the fact that she didn't care twopence about  her house and called the servant Gladys "Glad - eyes," was disgraceful.  Standing on the porch steps Mrs. Kember would call in her indifferent,  tired voice, "I say, Glad - eyes, you might heave me a handkerchief if  I've got one, will you?" And Glad - eyes, a red bow in her hair instead of  a cap, and white shoes, came running with a bold smile. It was an  absolute scandal! True, she had no children, and her husband... Here the  voices were always raised; they became fervent. How can he have married  her? How can he, how can he? It must have been money, of course, but  even then!

Mrs. Kember's husband was at least ten years younger than she was, and  so incredibly handsome that he looked like a mask or a most perfect  illustration in an American novel rather than a man. Black hair, dark  blue eyes, red lips, a slow sleepy smile, a fine tennis player, a  perfect dancer, and with it all a mystery. Harry Kember was like a man  walking in his sleep. Men couldn't stand him, they couldn't get a word  out of the chap; he ignored his wife just as she ignored him. How did  he live? Of course there were stories, but such stories! They simply  couldn't be told. The women he'd been seen with, the places he'd been  seen in... but nothing was ever certain, nothing definite. Some of the  women at the Bay privately thought he'd commit a murder one day. Yes,  even while they talked to Mrs. Kember and took in the awful concoction  she was wearing, they saw her, stretched as she lay on the beach; but  cold, unattractive, and still with a cigarette stuck in the corner of her  mouth.

Mrs. Kember rose, yawned, undid her belt buckle, and tugged at the  tape of her blouse. And Beryl stepped out of her skirt and shed her  jersey, and stood up in her underwear.

"Mercy on us," said Mrs. Harry Kember, "what a little beauty you are!"

"Don't!" said Beryl softly; but, drawing off one stocking and then the  other, she felt a little beauty.

"My dear -  - why not?" said Mrs. Harry Kember, stamping on her own  clothes. Really -  - her underwear! A pair of blue cotton pants and  a linen top that reminded one somehow of a pillow - case... ".

Beryl turned her back and began the complicated movements of someone  who is trying to take off her clothes and to pull on her bathing - dress  all at one and the same time.

"Oh, my dear -  - don't mind me," said Mrs. Harry Kember. "Why be shy? I  shan't eat you. I shan't be shocked like those other silly women." And she  gave her strange laugh and grimaced at the other women.

But Beryl was shy. She never undressed in front of anybody. Was that  silly? Mrs. Harry Kember made her feel it was silly, even something  to be ashamed of. Why be shy indeed! She glanced quickly at her friend  standing so boldly in her torn under-garment and lighting a fresh cigarette;  and a quick, bold, evil feeling started up in her breast. Laughing  recklessly, she drew on the limp, sandy - feeling bathing - dress that was  not quite dry and fastened the twisted buttons.

"That's better," said Mrs. Harry Kember. They began to go down the  beach together. "Really, it's a sin for you to wear clothes, my dear.  Somebody's got to tell you some day."

The water was quite warm. It was that marvellous transparent blue,  dotted with silver, but the sand at the bottom looked gold; when you  kicked with your toes there rose a little puff of gold - dust. Now the  waves just reached her breast. Beryl stood, her arms outstretched,  gazing out, and as each wave came she gave the slightest little jump, so  that it seemed it was the wave which lifted her so gently.

"I believe in pretty girls having a good time," said Mrs. Harry Kember.  "Why not? Don't you make a mistake, my dear. Enjoy yourself." And  suddenly she turned turtle, disappeared, and swam away quickly, quickly,  like a rat. Then she flicked round and began swimming back. She was  going to say something else. Beryl felt that she was being poisoned  by this cold woman, but she longed to hear. But oh, how strange, how  horrible! As Mrs. Harry Kember came up close she looked, in her black  waterproof bathing - cap, with her sleepy face lifted above the water,  just her chin touching, like a horrible caricature of her husband.

  VI.

In a chair, under a manuka tree that grew in the middle of  the front grass patch, Linda Burnell dreamed the morning away. She did  nothing. She looked up at the dark, close, dry leaves of the manuka, at  the bits of blue between, and now and again a tiny yellowish flower  dropped on her. Pretty -  - yes, if you held one of those flowers on the  palm of your hand and looked at it closely, it was an exquisite small  thing. Each pale yellow petal shone as if each was the careful work of a  loving hand. The tiny tongue in the centre gave it the shape of a bell.  And when you turned it over the outside was a deep bronze colour. But  as soon as they flowered, they fell and were scattered. You brushed them  off your dress as you talked; the nasty little things got caught in  one's hair. Why, then, flower at all? Who takes the trouble -  - or the  joy -  - to make all these things that are wasted, wasted... It was uncanny.

On the grass beside her, lying between two pillows, was the boy. Sound  asleep he lay, his head turned away from his mother. His fine dark hair  looked more like a shadow than like real hair, but his ear was a bright,  deep coral. Linda clasped her hands above her head and crossed her feet.  It was very pleasant to know that all these bungalows were empty, that  everybody was down on the beach, out of sight, out of hearing. She had  the garden to herself; she was alone.

Dazzling white the picotees shone; the golden - eyed marigold glittered;  the nasturtiums wreathed the porch poles in green and gold flame. If  only one had time to look at these flowers long enough, time to get over  the sense of novelty and strangeness, time to know them! But as soon as  one paused to part the petals, to discover the under - side of the leaf,  along came Life and one was swept away. And, lying in her cane chair,  Linda felt so light; she felt like a leaf. Along came Life like a wind  and she was seized and shaken; she had to go. Oh dear, would it always  be so? Was there no escape?

... Now she sat on the porch of their Tasmanian home, leaning against  her father's knee. And he promised, "As soon as you and I are old  enough, Linny, we'll cut off somewhere, we'll escape. Two boys together.  I have a fancy I'd like to sail up a river in China." Linda saw that  river, very wide, covered with little rafts and boats. She saw the  yellow hats of the boatmen and she heard their high, thin voices as they  called...

"Yes, papa."

But just then a very broad young man with bright ginger hair walked  slowly past their house, and slowly, solemnly even, with no hat. Linda's  father pulled her ear teasingly, in the way he had.

"Linny's boyfriend," he whispered.

"Oh, papa, fancy being married to Stanley Burnell!"

Well, she was married to him. And what was more she loved him. Not  the Stanley whom everyone saw, not the everyday one; but a timid,  sensitive, innocent Stanley who knelt down every night to say his  prayers, and who longed to be good. Stanley was simple. If he believed  in people -  - as he believed in her, for instance -  - it was with his whole  heart. He could not be disloyal; he could not tell a lie. And how   terribly he suffered if he thought anyone -  - she -  - was not being completely honest or sincere with him! "This is too subtle for me!" He flung  out the words, but his open, quivering, distressed look was like the  look of a trapped beast.

But the trouble was -  - here Linda felt almost inclined to laugh, though  Heaven knows it was no laughing matter -  - she saw her Stanley so seldom.  There were glimpses, moments, breathing spaces of calm, but all the rest  of the time it was like living in a house that couldn't be cured of the  habit of catching on fire, on a ship that got wrecked every day. And it  was always Stanley who was in the thick of the danger. Her whole time  was spent in rescuing him, and restoring him, and calming him down, and  listening to his story. And what was left of her time was spent in the  dread of having children.

Linda frowned; she sat up quickly in her chair and clasped her  ankles. Yes, that was her real grudge against life; that was what she  could not understand. That was the question she asked and asked, and  listened in vain for the answer. It was all very well to say it was  the common lot of women to bear children. It wasn't true. She, for one,  could prove that wrong. She was broken, made weak, her courage was gone,  through child - bearing. And what made it doubly hard to bear was, she did  not love her children. It was useless pretending. Even if she had had  the strength she never would have nursed and played with the little  girls. No, it was as though a cold breath had chilled her through and  through on each of those awful journeys; she had no warmth left to give  them. As to the boy -  - well, thank Heaven, mother had taken him; he was  mother's, or Beryl's, or anybody's who wanted him. She had hardly  held him in her arms. She was so indifferent about him that as he lay  there... Linda glanced down.

The boy had turned over. He lay facing her, and he was no longer asleep.  His dark - blue, baby eyes were open; he looked as though he was peeping  at his mother. And suddenly his face wrinkled; it broke into a wide,  toothless smile, a perfect beam, no less.

"I'm here!" that happy smile seemed to say. "Why don't you like me?"

There was something so quaint, so unexpected about that smile that Linda  smiled herself. But she checked herself and said to the boy coldly, "I  don't like babies."

"Don't like babies?" The boy couldn't believe her. "Don't like me?" He  waved his arms foolishly at his mother.

Linda dropped off her chair on to the grass.

"Why do you keep on smiling?" she said severely. "If you knew what I was  thinking about, you wouldn't."

But he only squeezed up his eyes, slyly, and rolled his head on the  pillow. He didn't believe a word she said.

"We know all about that!" smiled the boy.

Linda was so astonished at the confidence of this little creature... Ah  no, be sincere. That was not what she felt; it was something far  different, it was something so new, so... The tears danced in her eyes;  she breathed in a small whisper to the boy, "Hallo, my funny!"

But by now the boy had forgotten his mother. He was serious again.  Something pink, something soft waved in front of him. He made a grab at  it and it immediately disappeared. But when he lay back, another, like  the first, appeared. This time he determined to catch it. He made a  tremendous effort and rolled right over.

  VII.

The tide was out; the beach was deserted; lazily flopped the warm sea.  The sun beat down, beat down hot and fiery on the fine sand, baking  the grey and blue and black and white - veined pebbles. It sucked up the  little drop of water that lay in the hollow of the curved shells; it  bleached the pink convolvulus that threaded through and through  the sand - hills. Nothing seemed to move but the small sand - hoppers.  Pit - pit - pit! They were never still.

Over there on the weed - hung rocks that looked at low tide like woolly  beasts come down to the water to drink, the sunlight seemed to spin like  a silver coin dropped into each of the small rock pools. They danced,  they quivered, and minute ripples moved over the sand. Looking  down, bending over, each pool was like a lake with pink and blue houses  clustered on the shores; and oh! the vast mountainous country behind  those houses -  - the steep valleys, the passes, the dangerous creeks and  fearful tracks that led to the water's edge. Underneath waved the  sea - forest -  - pink thread - like trees.  Now a stone on the bottom moved, rocked, and there  was a glimpse of a black feeler; now a thread - like creature wavered by  and was lost. Something was happening to the pink, waving trees; they  were changing to a cold moonlight blue. And now there sounded the  faintest "plop." Who made that sound? What was going on down there? And  how strong, how damp the seaweed smelt in the hot sun...

The green blinds were drawn in the bungalows of the summer colony. Over  the porches, prone on the field, flung over the fences, there were  exhausted - looking bathing - dresses and rough striped towels. Each back  window seemed to have a pair of sand - shoes on the ledge and some lumps of  rock or a bucket or a collection of shells. The bush quivered in  a haze of heat; the sandy road was empty except for the Trouts' dog  Snooker, who lay stretched in the very middle of it. His blue eye  was turned up, his legs stuck out stiffly, and he gave an occasional  desperate - sounding puff, as much as to say he had decided to make an end  of it and was only waiting for some kind cart to come along.

"What are you looking at, my grandma? Why do you keep stopping and sort  of staring at the wall?"

Kezia and her grandmother were taking their afternoon nap together. The little  girl, wearing only her underwear, her arms and  legs bare, lay on one of the puffed - up pillows of her grandma's bed, and  the old woman, in a white ruffled dressing - gown, sat in a rocker at the  window, with a long piece of pink knitting in her lap. This room  that they shared, like the other rooms of the bungalow, was of light  varnished wood and the floor was bare. The furniture was of the  shabbiest, the simplest. The dressing - table, for instance, was a  packing - case in covered with a cloth, and the mirror above was  very strange; it was as though a little piece of forked lightning was  imprisoned in it. On the table there stood a jar of small pink flowers, pressed  so tightly together they looked more like a velvet pincushion, and a  special shell which Kezia had given her grandma for a pin - tray, and  another even more special one, which she had thought would make a very nice  place for a watch to curl up in.

"Tell me, grandma," said Kezia.

The old woman sighed, whipped the wool twice round her thumb, and drew  the bone needle through. She was casting on.

"I was thinking of your Uncle William, darling," she said quietly.

"My Australian Uncle William?" said Kezia. She had another.

"Yes, of course."

"The one I never saw?"

"That was the one."

"Well, what happened to him?" Kezia knew perfectly well, but she wanted  to be told again.

"He went to the mines, and he got ill there and died," said old  Mrs. Fairfield.

Kezia blinked and considered the picture again... a little man fallen  over like a tin soldier by the side of a big black hole.

"Does it make you sad to think about him, grandma?" She hated her  grandma to be sad.

It was the old woman's turn to consider. Did it make her sad? To look  back, back. To stare down the years, as Kezia had seen her doing. To  look after them as a woman does, long after they were out of sight. Did  it make her sad? No, life was like that.

"No, Kezia."

"But why?" asked Kezia. She lifted one bare arm and began to draw things  in the air. "Why did Uncle William have to die? He wasn't old."

Mrs. Fairfield began counting the stitches in threes. "It just  happened," she said in an absorbed voice.

"Does everybody have to die?" asked Kezia.

"Everybody!"

"Me?" Kezia sounded fearfully unbelieving.

"Some day, my darling."

"But, grandma." Kezia waved her left leg and moved her toes. They felt  sandy. "What if I just won't?"

The old woman sighed again and drew a long thread from the ball.

"We're not asked, Kezia," she said sadly. "It happens to all of us  sooner or later."

Kezia lay still thinking this over. She didn't want to die. It meant she  would have to leave here, leave everywhere, for ever, leave -  - leave her  grandma. She rolled over quickly.

"Grandma," she said in a startled voice.

"What, my pet!"

"You're not to die." Kezia was very decided.

"Ah, Kezia" -  - her grandma looked up and smiled and shook her head -  - "don't  let's talk about it."

"But you're not to. You couldn't leave me. You couldn't not be there."  This was awful. "Promise me you won't ever do it, grandma," pleaded  Kezia.

The old woman went on knitting.

"Promise me! Say never!"

But still her grandma was silent.

Kezia rolled off her bed; she couldn't bear it any longer, and lightly  she leapt on to her grandma's knees, clasped her hands round the old  woman's throat and began kissing her, under the chin, behind the ear,  and blowing down her neck.

"Say never... say never... say never -  - " She gasped between the kisses. And  then she began, very softly and lightly, to tickle her grandma.

"Kezia!" The old woman dropped her knitting. She swung back in the  rocker. She began to tickle Kezia. "Say never, say never, say never,"  giggled Kezia, while they lay there laughing in each other's arms.  "Come, that's enough, my squirrel! That's enough, my wild pony!" said  old Mrs. Fairfield, setting her cap straight. "Pick up my knitting."

Both of them had forgotten what the "never" was about.

  VIII.

The sun was still full on the garden when the back door of the Burnells'  shut with a bang, and a very gay figure walked down the path to the  gate. It was Alice, the servant - girl, dressed for her afternoon out. She  wore a white cotton dress with such large red spots on it and so many  that they made you shudder, white shoes and a hat decorated   with flowers. Of course she wore gloves, white ones, stained  at the fastenings, and in one hand she carried a very  old - looking umbrella to shade her from the sun.

Beryl, sitting in the window, fanning her freshly - washed hair, thought  she had never seen such a sight. If Alice had only blacked her face with  a piece of cork before she started out, the picture would have been  complete. And where did a girl like that go to in a place like this? The  heart - shaped Fijian fan beat scornfully at that lovely bright hair. She  supposed Alice had picked up some horrible common young man and they'd  go off into the bush together. Pity to have made herself so conspicuous;  they'd have hard work to hide with Alice in that rig - out.

But no, Beryl was unfair. Alice was going to tea with Mrs Stubbs, who'd  sent her an "invite" by the little boy who called for orders. She had  taken ever such a liking to Mrs. Stubbs ever since the first time she  went to the shop to get something for her mosquito bites.

"Dear heart!" Mrs. Stubbs had clapped her hand to her side. "I never  seen anyone so eaten. You might have been attacked by man - eaters."

Alice did wish there'd been a bit of life on the road though. Made her  feel so queer, having nobody behind her. Made her feel all weak in the  spine. She couldn't believe that some one wasn't watching her. And yet  it was silly to turn round; it gave you away. She pulled up her gloves,  hummed to herself and said to the distant gum - tree, "Shan't be long  now." But that was hardly company.

Mrs. Stubbs's shop was perched on a little hill just off the road. It  had two big windows for eyes, a broad porch for a hat, and the sign on  the roof, saying MRS. STUBBS'S, was like a little card stuck in the hat crown.

On the porch there hung a long string of bathing - dresses, clinging  together as though they'd just been rescued from the sea rather than  waiting to go in, and beside them there hung a cluster of sandshoes so  extraordinarily mixed that to get at one pair you had to tear apart and  forcibly separate at least fifty. Even then it was the rarest thing  to find the left that belonged to the right. So many people had lost  patience and gone off with one shoe that fitted and one that was a  little too big... Mrs. Stubbs prided herself on keeping something  of everything. The two windows, arranged in the form of precarious  pyramids, were crammed so tight, piled so high, that it seemed only a  conjurer could prevent them from toppling over. In the left - hand corner  of one window, glued to the pane, there  was -  - and there had been forever -  - a notice.

LOST! HANSOME GOLE BROOCH SOLID GOLD ON OR NEAR BEACH REWARD OFFERED

Alice pressed open the door. The bell rang, the red curtains  parted, and Mrs. Stubbs appeared. With her broad smile and the long  bacon knife in her hand, she looked like a friendly criminal. Alice was  welcomed so warmly that she found it quite difficult to keep up her  "manners." They consisted of persistent little coughs and hems, pulls at  her gloves, adjustments to her skirt, and a curious difficulty in seeing what  was set before her or understanding what was said.

Tea was laid on the parlour table -  - ham, sardines, a whole pound  of butter, and such a large johnny cake that it looked like an  advertisement for somebody's baking - powder. But the small stove roared  so loudly that it was useless to try to talk above it. Alice sat down  on the edge of a basket - chair while Mrs. Stubbs pumped the stove  still higher. Suddenly Mrs. Stubbs whipped the cushion off a chair and  disclosed a large brown - paper parcel.

"I've just had some new photos taken, my dear," she shouted cheerfully  to Alice. "Tell me what you think of them."

In a very refined way Alice wet her finger and put the tissue  back from the first one. Life! How many there were! There were three  dozen at least. And she held it up to the light.

Mrs. Stubbs sat in an arm - chair, leaning very much to one side. There  was a look of mild astonishment on her large face, and well there might  be. For though the arm - chair stood on a carpet, to the left of it,  miraculously on the edge of the carpet - border, there was a dashing water - fall.  On her right stood a Grecian pillar with a giant fern - tree on either  side of it, and in the background towered a mountain, pale with  snow.

"It is a nice style, isn't it?" shouted Mrs. Stubbs; and Alice had  just screamed "Sweetly" when the roaring of the stove died  down, then ceased and she said "Pretty" in a silence that was  frightening.

"Draw up your chair, my dear," said Mrs. Stubbs, beginning to pour out.  "Yes," she said thoughtfully, as she handed the tea, "but I don't care  about the size. I'm having an enlargement. All very well for Christmas  cards, but I never was the one for small photos myself. You get no  comfort out of them. To say the truth, I find them disheartening."

Alice quite saw what she meant.

"Size," said Mrs. Stubbs. "Give me size. That was what my poor dear  husband was always saying. He couldn't stand anything small. Gave him  the creeps. And, strange as it may seem, my dear" -  - here Mrs. Stubbs  creaked and seemed to expand herself at the memory - - it was a nasty disease that carried him off at the last.  Many a time they drawn one and a half pints from him at the hospital.....It seemed like a judgement."

Alice burned to know exactly what it was that was drawn from him. She  ventured, "I suppose it was water."

But Mrs. Stubbs fixed Alice with her eyes and replied, "It was  liquid, my dear."

Liquid! Alice jumped away from the word like a cat and came back to it,  nosing and wary.

"That's 'im!" said Mrs. Stubbs, and she pointed dramatically to the  life - size head and shoulders of a strong man with a dead white rose in  the buttonhole of his coat that made you think of a curl of cold fat. Just below, in silver letters on a red cardboard ground, were the  words, "Be not afraid, it is I."

"It's ever such a fine face," said Alice faintly.

The pale - blue bow on the top of Mrs. Stubbs's fair curly hair quivered.  She arched her plump neck. What a neck she had! It was bright pink where  it began and then it changed to warm apricot, and that faded to the  colour of a brown egg and then to a deep creamy.

"All the same, my dear," she said surprisingly, "freedom's best!" Her  soft, fat chuckle sounded like a cat's purr. "Freedom's best," said Mrs.  Stubbs again.

Freedom! Alice gave a loud, silly little giggle. She felt awkward. Her  mind flew back to her own kitchen. Ever so queer! She wanted to be back  in it again.

  IX.

A strange company assembled in the Burnells' washhouse after tea. Round  the table there sat a bull, a rooster, a donkey that kept forgetting it  was a donkey, a sheep and a bee. The washhouse was the perfect place for  such a meeting because they could make as much noise as they liked, and  nobody ever interrupted. It was a small tin shed standing apart from the  bungalow. Against the wall there was a deep trough and in the corner a  copper with a basket of clothes - pegs on top of it. The little window,  spun over with spider webs, had a piece of candle and a mouse - trap on the  dusty ledge. There were clotheslines criss - crossed overhead and, hanging  from a peg on the wall, a very big, a huge, rusty horseshoe. The table  was in the middle with a form at either side.

"You can't be a bee, Kezia. A bee's not an animal. It's an insect."

"Oh, but I do want to be a bee frightfully," wailed Kezia... A tiny bee,  all yellow - furry, with striped legs. She drew her legs up under her and  leaned over the table. She felt she was a bee.

"An insect must be an animal," she said stoutly. "It makes a noise. It's  not like a fish."

"I'm a bull, I'm a bull!" cried Pip. And he gave such a tremendous  bellow -  - how did he make that noise? -  - that Lottie looked quite alarmed.

"I'll be a sheep," said little Rags. "A whole lot of sheep went past  this morning."

"How do you know?"

"Dad heard them. Baa!" He sounded like the little lamb that trots behind  and seems to wait to be carried.

"Cock - a - doodle - do!" shrilled Isabel. With her red cheeks and bright eyes  she looked like a rooster.

"What'll I be?" Lottie asked everybody, and she sat there smiling,  waiting for them to decide for her. It had to be an easy one.

"Be a donkey, Lottie." It was Kezia's suggestion. "Hee - haw! You can't  forget that."

"Hee - haw!" said Lottie solemnly. "When do I have to say it?"

"I'll explain, I'll explain," said the bull. It was he who had the  cards. He waved them round his head. "All be quiet! All listen!" And he  waited for them. "Look here, Lottie." He turned up a card. "It's got two  spots on it -  - see? Now, if you put that card in the middle and somebody  else has one with two spots as well, you say 'Hee - haw,' and the card's  yours."

"Mine?" Lottie was round - eyed. "To keep?"

"No, silly. Just for the game, see? Just while we're playing." The bull  was very cross with her.

"Oh, Lottie, you are a little silly," said the proud rooster.

Lottie looked at both of them. Then she hung her head; her lip quivered.  "I don't want to play," she whispered. The others glanced at one another  like conspirators. All of them knew what that meant. She would go away  and be discovered somewhere standing with her face covered, in a corner, or against a wall, or even behind a chair.

"Yes, you do, Lottie. It's quite easy," said Kezia.

And Isabel, repentant, said exactly like a grown - up, "Watch me, Lottie,  and you'll soon learn."

"Cheer up, Lot," said Pip. "There, I know what I'll do. I'll give you  the first one. It's mine, really, but I'll give it to you. Here you  are." And he slammed the card down in front of Lottie.

Lottie revived at that. But now she was in another difficulty. "I  haven't got a hanky," she said; "I want one badly, too."

"Here, Lottie, you can use mine." Rags dipped into his sailor blouse and  brought up a very wet - looking one, knotted together. "Be very careful,"  he warned her. "Only use that corner. Don't undo it. I've got a little  starfish inside I'm going to try and tame."

"Oh, come on, you girls," said the bull. "And mind -  - you're not to look  at your cards. You've got to keep your hands under the table till I say  'Go.'"

Smack went the cards round the table. They tried with all their might to  see, but Pip was too quick for them. It was very exciting, sitting there  in the washhouse; it was all they could do not to burst into a little  chorus of animals before Pip had finished dealing.

"Now, Lottie, you begin."

Timidly Lottie stretched out a hand, took the top card off her pack, had  a good look at it -  - it was plain she was counting the spots -  - and put it  down.

"No, Lottie, you can't do that. You mustn't look first. You must turn it  the other way over."

"But then everybody will see it the same time as me," said Lottie.

The game proceeded. Mooe - ooo - er! The bull was terrible. He charged over  the table and seemed to eat the cards up.

Bss - ss! said the bee.

Cock - a - doodle - do! Isabel stood up in her excitement and moved her elbows  like wings.

Baa! Little Rags put down the King of Diamonds and Lottie put down the  one they called the King of Spain. She had hardly any cards left.

"Why don't you call out, Lottie?"

"I've forgotten what I am," said the donkey woefully.

"Well, change! Be a dog instead! Bow - wow!"

"Oh yes. That's much easier." Lottie smiled again. But when she and  Kezia both had a one Kezia waited on purpose. The others made signs to  Lottie and pointed. Lottie turned very red; she looked bewildered, and  at last she said, "Hee - haw! Ke - zia."

"Ss! Wait a minute!" They were in the very thick of it when the bull  stopped them, holding up his hand. "What's that? What's that noise?"

"What noise? What do you mean?" asked the rooster.    "Ss! Shut up! Listen!" They were mouse - still. "I thought I heard a -  - a  sort of knocking," said the bull.

"What was it like?" asked the sheep faintly.

No answer.

The bee gave a shudder. "Whatever did we shut the door for?" she said  softly. Oh, why, why had they shut the door?

While they were playing, the day had faded; the gorgeous sunset had  blazed and died. And now the quick dark came racing over the sea, over  the sand - hills, up the field. You were frightened to look in the  corners of the washhouse, and yet you had to look with all your might.  And somewhere, far away, grandma was lighting a lamp. The blinds  were being pulled down; the kitchen fire leapt in the tins on the  shelf.

"It would be awful now," said the bull, "if a spider was to fall from  the ceiling on to the table, wouldn't it?"

"Spiders don't fall from ceilings."

"Yes, they do. Our Min told us she'd seen a spider as big as a saucer,  with long hairs on it."

Quickly all the little heads were jerked up; all the little bodies drew  together, pressed together.

"Why doesn't somebody come and call us?" cried the rooster.

Oh, those grown - ups, laughing and snug, sitting in the lamp - light,  drinking out of cups! They'd forgotten about them. No, not really  forgotten. That was what their smile meant. They had decided to leave  them there all by themselves.

Suddenly Lottie gave such a piercing scream that all of them jumped off  the forms, all of them screamed too. "A face -  - a face looking!" shrieked  Lottie.

It was true, it was real. Pressed against the window was a pale face,  black eyes, a black beard.

"Grandma! Mother! Somebody!"

But they had not got to the door, tumbling over one another, before it  opened for Uncle Jonathan. He had come to take the little boys home.

  X.

He had meant to be there before, but in the front garden he had come  upon Linda walking up and down the grass, stopping to pick off a dead  pink or give a top - heavy carnation something to lean against, or to take  a deep breath of something, and then walking on again, with her little  air of remoteness. Over her white dress she wore a yellow, pink - fringed  shawl from the Chinaman's shop.

"Hallo, Jonathan!" called Linda. And Jonathan whipped off his shabby  panama, pressed it against his breast, dropped on one knee, and kissed  Linda's hand.

"Greeting, my Fair One! Greeting, my Heavenly Peach Blossom!" boomed  the bass voice gently. "Where are the other noble dames?"

"Beryl's out playing bridge and mother's giving the boy his bath... Have  you come to borrow something?"

The Trouts were for ever running out of things and sending across to the  Burnells' at the last moment.

But Jonathan only answered, "A little love, a little kindness;" and he  walked by his sister - in - law's side.

Linda dropped onto the ground under the manuka - tree, and Jonathan  stretched himself on the grass beside her, pulled a long stalk and began  chewing it. They knew each other well. The voices of children cried from  the other gardens. A fisherman's light cart shook along the sandy road,  and from far away they heard a dog barking; it was muffled as though the  dog had its head in a sack. If you listened you could just hear the soft  sound of the sea at full tide sweeping the pebbles. The sun was sinking.

"And so you go back to the office on Monday, do you, Jonathan?" asked  Linda.

"On Monday the cage door opens and bangs shut upon the victim for another  eleven months and a week," answered Jonathan.

Linda swung a little. "It must be awful," she said slowly.

"Would ye have me laugh, my fair sister? Would ye have me weep?"

Linda was so accustomed to Jonathan's way of talking that she paid no  attention to it.

"I suppose," she said vaguely, "one gets used to it. One gets used to  anything."

"Does one? Hum!" The "Hum" was so deep it seemed to boom from underneath  the ground. "I wonder how it's done," brooded Jonathan; "I've never  managed it."

Looking at him as he lay there, Linda thought again how attractive he  was. It was strange to think that he was only an ordinary clerk, that  Stanley earned twice as much money as he. What was the matter with  Jonathan? He had no ambition; she supposed that was it. And yet one felt  he was gifted, exceptional. He was passionately fond of music; every  spare penny he had went on books. He was always full of new ideas,  schemes, plans. But nothing came of it all. The new fire blazed in  Jonathan; you almost heard it roaring softly as he explained, described  the new thing; but a moment later it had fallen in and  there was nothing but ashes, and Jonathan went about with a look like  hunger in his black eyes. At these times he exaggerated his absurd  manner of speaking, and he sang in church -  - he was the leader of the  choir -  - with such fearful dramatic intensity that the worst hymn put on  an unholy splendour.

"It seems to me just as stupid, just as infuriating, to have to go to the  office on Monday," said Jonathan, "as it always has done and always will  do. To spend all the best years of one's life sitting on a stool from  nine to five, scratching in somebody's ledger! It's a queer use to make  of one's... one and only life, isn't it? Or do I fondly dream?" He  rolled over on the grass and looked up at Linda. "Tell me, what is the  difference between my life and that of an ordinary prisoner. The only  difference I can see is that I put myself in jail and nobody's ever  going to let me out. That's a more intolerable situation than the other.  For if I'd been -  - pushed in, against my will -  - kicking, even -  - once the  door was locked, or at any rate in five years or so, I might have  accepted the fact and begun to take an interest in the flight of  flies or counting the prison-keeper's steps along the passage with particular  attention to variations of tread and so on. But as it is, I'm like an  insect that's flown into a room of its own accord. I dash against the  walls, dash against the windows, flop against the ceiling, do everything  on God's earth, in fact, except fly out again. And all the while I'm  thinking, like that moth, or that butterfly, or whatever it is, 'The  shortness of life! The shortness of life!' I've only one night or  one day, and there's this vast dangerous garden, waiting out there,  undiscovered, unexplored."

"But, if you feel like that, why -  - " began Linda quickly.

"Ah!" cried Jonathan. And that "ah!" was somehow almost triumphant.  "There you have me. Why? Why indeed? There's the maddening, mysterious  question. Why don't I fly out again? There's the window or the door or  whatever it was I came in by. It's not hopelessly shut -  - is it? Why don't  I find it and be off? Answer me that, little sister." But he gave her no  time to answer.

"I'm exactly like that insect again. For some reason" -  - Jonathan paused  between the words -  - "it's not allowed, it's forbidden, it's against the  insect law, to stop banging and flopping and crawling up the pane even  for an instant. Why don't I leave the office? Why don't I seriously  consider, this moment, for instance, what it is that prevents me  leaving? It's not as though I'm tremendously tied. I've two boys to  provide for, but, after all, they're boys. I could cut off to sea, or  get a job up - country, or -  - " Suddenly he smiled at Linda and said in  a changed voice, as if he were confiding a secret, "Weak... weak. No  strength. No anchor. No guiding principle, let us call it." But then the  dark velvety voice rolled out:

     "Would ye hear the story        How it unfolds itself... "

and they were silent.

The sun had set. In the western sky there were great masses of  crushed - up rose - coloured clouds. Broad beams of light shone through the  clouds and beyond them as if they would cover the whole sky. Overhead  the blue faded; it turned a pale gold, and the bush outlined against  it gleamed dark and brilliant like metal. Sometimes when those beams of  light show in the sky they are very awful. They remind you that up there  sits Jehovah, the jealous God, the Almighty, Whose eye is upon you, ever  watchful, never weary. You remember that at His coming the whole earth  will shake into one ruined graveyard; the cold, bright angels will drive  you this way and that, and there will be no time to explain what could  be explained so simply... But to - night it seemed to Linda there was  something infinitely joyful and loving in those silver beams. And now  no sound came from the sea. It breathed softly as if it would draw that  tender, joyful beauty into its own breast.

"It's all wrong, it's all wrong," came the shadowy voice of Jonathan.  "It's not the scene, it's not the setting for... three stools, three  desks, three inkpots and a wire blind."

Linda knew that he would never change, but she said, "Is it too late,  even now?"

"I'm old -  - I'm old," intoned Jonathan. He bent towards her, he passed his  hand over his head. "Look!" His black hair was dotted all over with  silver, like the breast plumage of a black hen.

Linda was surprised. She had no idea that he was grey. And yet, as he  stood up beside her and sighed and stretched, she saw him, for the first  time, not resolute, not brave, not careless, but touched already with  age. He looked very tall on the darkening grass, and the thought crossed  her mind, "He is like a weed."

Jonathan stooped again and kissed her fingers.

"Heaven reward thy sweet patience, lady mine," he murmured. "I must go  seek those heirs to my fame and fortune... " He was gone.

  XI.

Light shone in the windows of the bungalow. Two square patches of gold  fell upon the pinks and the peaked marigolds. Florrie, the cat, came  out on to the porch, and sat on the top step, her white paws close  together, her tail curled round. She looked content, as though she had  been waiting for this moment all day.

"Thank goodness, it's getting late," said Florrie. "Thank goodness, the  long day is over." Her green eyes opened.

Presently there sounded the rumble of the coach, the crack of Kelly's  whip. It came near enough for one to hear the voices of the men from  town, talking loudly together. It stopped at the Burnells' gate.

Stanley was half - way up the path before he saw Linda. "Is that you,  darling?"

"Yes, Stanley."

He leapt across the flower - bed and seized her in his arms. She was  folded in that familiar, eager, strong embrace.

"Forgive me, darling, forgive me," said Stanley, and he put his  hand under her chin and lifted her face to him.

"Forgive you?" smiled Linda. "But whatever for?"

"Good God! You can't have forgotten," cried Stanley Burnell. "I've  thought of nothing else all day. I've had the hell of a day. I made up  my mind to dash out and telegraph, and then I thought the wire mightn't  reach you before I did. I've been in tortures, Linda."

"But, Stanley," said Linda, "what must I forgive you for?"

"Linda!" -  - Stanley was very hurt -  - "didn't you realize -  - you must have  realized -  - I went away without saying good - bye to you this morning? I  can't imagine how I can have done such a thing. My confounded temper, of  course. But -  - well" -  - and he sighed and took her in his arms again -  - "I've  suffered for it enough to - day."

"What's that you've got in your hand?" asked Linda. "New gloves? Let me  see."

"Oh, just a cheap pair of wash - leather ones," said Stanley humbly. "I  noticed Bell was wearing some in the coach this morning, so, as I  was passing the shop, I dashed in and got myself a pair. What are you  smiling at? You don't think it was wrong of me, do you?"

"On the contrary, darling," said Linda, "I think it was most sensible."

She pulled one of the large, pale gloves on her own fingers and looked  at her hand, turning it this way and that. She was still smiling.

Stanley wanted to say, "I was thinking of you the whole time I bought  them." It was true, but for some reason he couldn't say it. "Let's go  in," said he.

  XII.

Why does one feel so different at night? Why is it so exciting to be  awake when everybody else is asleep? Late -  - it is very late! And yet  every moment you feel more and more wakeful, as though you were slowly,  almost with every breath, waking up into a new, wonderful, far more  thrilling and exciting world than the daylight one. And what is this  queer sensation that you're a conspirator? Lightly, stealthily you move  about your room. You take something off the dressing - table and put it  down again without a sound. And everything, even the bed - post, knows  you, responds, shares your secret...

You're not very fond of your room by day. You never think about it.  You're in and out, the door opens and slams, the cupboard creaks. You  sit down on the side of your bed, change your shoes and dash out again.  A dive down to the glass, two pins in your hair, powder your nose and  off again. But now -  - it's suddenly dear to you. It's a darling little  funny room. It's yours. Oh, what a joy it is to own things! Mine -  - my  own!

"My very own for ever?"

"Yes." Their lips met.

No, of course, that had nothing to do with it. That was all nonsense  and rubbish. But, in spite of herself, Beryl saw so plainly two people  standing in the middle of her room. Her arms were round his neck; he  held her. And now he whispered, "My beauty, my little beauty!"  She jumped off her bed, ran over to the window and kneeled on the  window - seat, with her elbows on the ledge. But the beautiful night, the  garden, every bush, every leaf, even the white fence posts, even the stars,  were conspirators too. So bright was the moon that the flowers were  bright as by day; the shadow of the nasturtiums, exquisite lily - like  leaves and wide - open flowers, lay across the silvery porch. The  manuka - tree, bent by the southerly winds, was like a bird on one leg  stretching out a wing.

But when Beryl looked at the bush, it seemed to her the bush was sad.

"We are dumb trees, reaching up in the night, asking we know not  what," said the sorrowful bush.

It is true when you are by yourself and you think about life, it is  always sad. All that excitement and so on has a way of suddenly leaving  you, and it's as though, in the silence, somebody called your name, and  you heard your name for the first time. "Beryl!"

"Yes, I'm here. I'm Beryl. Who wants me?"

"Beryl!"

"Let me come."

It is lonely living by oneself. Of course, there are relations, friends,  heaps of them; but that's not what she means. She wants some one who  will find the Beryl they none of them know, who will expect her to be  that Beryl always. She wants a lover.

"Take me away from all these other people, my love. Let us go far away.  Let us live our life, all new, all ours, from the very beginning. Let us  make our fire. Let us sit down to eat together. Let us have long talks  at night."

And the thought was almost, "Save me, my love. Save me!"

... "Oh, go on! Don't be so conventional, my dear. You enjoy yourself while  you're young. That's my advice." And a high rush of silly laughter  joined Mrs. Harry Kember's loud, indifferent laugh.

You see, it's so frightfully difficult when you've nobody. You're so  at the mercy of things. You can't just be rude. And you've always this  horror of seeming inexperienced and conventional like the other silly women at the  Bay. And -  - and it's fascinating to know you've power over people. Yes,  that is fascinating...

Oh why, oh why doesn't "he" come soon?

If I go on living here, thought Beryl, anything may happen to me.

"But how do you know he is coming at all?" mocked a small voice within  her.

But Beryl dismissed it. She couldn't be left. Other people, perhaps, but  not she. It wasn't possible to think that Beryl Fairfield never married,  that lovely fascinating girl.

"Do you remember Beryl Fairfield?"

"Remember her! As if I could forget her! It was one summer at the  Bay that I saw her. She was standing on the beach in a blue" -  - no,  pink -  - "dress, holding on a big cream" -  - no, black -  - "straw hat. But  it's years ago now."

"She's as lovely as ever, more so if anything."

Beryl smiled, bit her lip, and gazed over the garden. As she gazed, she  saw somebody, a man, leave the road, step along the field beside their  fence as if he was coming straight towards her. Her heart beat. Who  was it? Who could it be? It couldn't be a burglar, certainly not a  burglar, for he was smoking and he strolled lightly. Beryl's heart  leapt; it seemed to turn right over, and then to stop. She recognized  him.

"Good evening, Miss Beryl," said the voice softly.

"Good evening."

"Won't you come for a little walk?" it drawled.

Come for a walk -  - at that time of night! "I couldn't. Everybody's in bed.  Everybody's asleep."

"Oh," said the voice lightly, and a smell of sweet smoke reached her.  "What does everybody matter? Do come! It's such a fine night. There's  not a soul about."

Beryl shook her head. But already something stirred in her, something  reared its head.

The voice said, "Frightened?" It mocked, "Poor little girl!"

"Not in the least," said she. As she spoke that weak thing within her  seemed to uncoil, to grow suddenly tremendously strong; she longed to  go!

And just as if this was quite understood by the other, the voice said,  gently and softly, but finally, "Come along!"

Beryl stepped over her low window, crossed the porch, ran down the  grass to the gate. He was there before her.

"That's right," breathed the voice, and it teased, "You're not  frightened, are you? You're not frightened?"

She was; now she was here she was terrified, and it seemed to her  everything was different. The moonlight stared and glittered; the  shadows were like bars of iron. Her hand was taken.

"Not in the least," she said lightly. "Why should I be?"

Her hand was pulled gently, tugged. She held back.

"No, I'm not coming any farther," said Beryl.

"Oh, rot!" Harry Kember didn't believe her. "Come along! We'll just go  as far as that fuchsia bush. Come along!"

The fuchsia bush was tall. It fell over the fence in a shower. There was  a little pit of darkness beneath.

"No, really, I don't want to," said Beryl.

For a moment Harry Kember didn't answer. Then he came close to her,  turned to her, smiled and said quickly, "Don't be silly! Don't be  silly!"

His smile was something she'd never seen before. Was he drunk? That  bright, blind, terrifying smile froze her with horror. What was she  doing? How had she got here? the stern garden asked her as the gate  pushed open, and quick as a cat Harry Kember came through and snatched  her to him.

"Cold little devil! Cold little devil!" said the hateful voice.

But Beryl was strong. She slipped, ducked, wrenched free.

"You are wicked, wicked," said she.

"Then why in God's name did you come?" said Harry Kember.

Nobody answered him.

  XIII.

A cloud, small, serene, floated across the moon. In that moment of  darkness the sea sounded deep, troubled. Then the cloud sailed away,  and the sound of the sea was a vague murmur, as though it woke out of a  dark dream. All was still.











  
