entertaining as it was made that week, by the gay, good-humoured nonsense and sprightly pranks of their guests.
Mrs. Callender often referred to them regretfully after they were gone; and it was with the liveliest expressions of delight that one day next spring she read aloud to Roger, who was as pleased as she, a letter from one of them, Mr. Martin Mills, imploring her, as the greatest of all possible favours, to put him up during the coming summer, which he proposed to devote to the painting of a great coast scene. He came, accordingly, and was more debonair and delightful than ever. The headland itself was mainly to serve him as a studio, and, unlike Miss Kirkcaldie, he took his meals sociably with his hosts; but the old kitchen was also placed at his disposal, and soon became a sort of miniature salon, its brown walls all brilliant with what looked like random bits of sea and sky blown in through the window. And the window itself, too, framed another picture, a live one, the garden in its summer glory—masses of pelargonium, rosy freaked with jet: of snapdragon, soft yellow, crimson and white: azure lupin and larkspur, golden “glory-cups” (eschscholtzia), and great damask and pink roses: all sprung up bright above their low, cool greenery, and heaped, yet without any crowding or garishness, upon the sapphire canvas of sea and sky. Colour both lapped and lined the little brown room, and it was gay, too, with more than colour. It had company in it now every day, blithe, numerous company, that bubbled over with vivacious chatter, and with airy projects for sports and picnics and all kinds of holiday outings. All the young folk
