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probably prefer a quiet day by the sea. Bring me Westcott's new
book, and you might put in the chisel and hammer. We will do a
little geologizing for the professor, if we have time. Meeting
here last night a great success. Your loving father, Luke
Raeburn.
He is only thinking how he can give me pleasure, sighed Erica.
And I have nothing to give him but pain.
She went at once, however, for the Bradshaw, and looked out the
afternoon trains to Codrington.
And seems she mid deep silence to a strain
To listen, which the soul alone can know,
Saying: Fear naught, for Jesus came on earth,
Jesus of endless joys the wide, deep sea,
To ease each heavy load of mortal birth.
His waters ever clearest, sweetest be
To him who in a lonely bark drifts forth
On His great deeps of goodness trustfully. From Vittoria Colonna
Codrington was one of the very few seaside places within fairly
easy reach of London which had not been vulgarized into an ordinary
watering place. It was a primitive little place with one good,
oldestablished hotel, and a limited number of villas and lodging
houses, which only served as a sort of ornamental fringe to the
picturesque little fishing town.
The fact was that it was just midway between two large and
deservedly popular resorts, and so it had been overlooked, and to
the regret of the thrifty inhabitants and the satisfaction of the
visitors who came there for quiet, its peaceful streets and its
stony beach were never invaded by excursionists. No cockneys came
down for the Sunday to eat shrimps; the shrimps were sent away by
train to the more favored watering places, and the Codrington shop
keepers shook their heads and gave up expecting to make a fortune
in such a conservative little place. Erica said it reminded her of
the dormouse in Alice In Wonderland, tyrannized over by the
hatter on one side and the March hare on the other, and eventually
put head foremost into the teapot. Certainly Helmstone on the east
and Westport on the west had managed to eclipse it altogether, and
its peaceful sleepiness made the dormouse comparison by no means
inapt.
It all looked wonderfully unchanged as she walked from the station
that summer afternoon with her father. The square, gray tower of
St. Oswald's Church, the little, winding, irregular streets, the
very shop windows seemed quite unaltered, while at every turn
familiar faces came into sight. The shrewd old sailor with the
telescope, the prim old lady at the bookseller's, who had
pronounced the Imitation of Christ to be quite out of fashion,
the sturdy milkman, with white smockfrock, and bright pails
fastened to a wooden yoke, and the coastguardsman, who was always

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