“You’ve let your rooms, I see, Mrs. Urquhart! And early in the season, too!”
“Yes, sir! I’ve let my rooms, and to my own young lady that I was nurse to; you’ll mind my telling you of Sir John Penberthy and his bonny family. Well, Mrs. Burton is just my Miss Mary, married and widowed too, poor lamb, and she and Master Wiggins have come all the way from London to be with me, and it’s proud I am to have them!” Mrs. Urquhart paused breathless.
The minister murmured something sympathetic, and taking up his bag of cookies strode back to the Manse. “Mary, mother of names,” he thought, as he turned over the information he had received. “Widowed! She doesn’t wear much mourning anyway!” as he thought of the blue silk bathing-dress. Then he said with a sigh, “She is very beautiful!” and sat him down to write his Sunday sermon.
In the afternoon he met Wiggins on the beach: that gentleman was digging while a French _bonne_ kept guard in the rear.
“Do you like Elgo?” asked the minister. He had a kindly way with children; he was rather childlike himself, and they knew it.
“Awfully,” answered Wiggins, patting his castle walls, and barely looking up.
“I live here,” said the minister, rather discomposed by this exceedingly cool child.
“I wish I did!” sighed Wiggins. “I hate Kensington.”
“Ah, that’s London! I’ve never been there,” said the minister simply. “I wish I had.”
“It’s not a very nice place. There’s gardens and busses, and sometimes we ride in a hansom, and you always have to wear your shoes and generally gloves, it’s beastly.” Wiggins spoke bitterly, as one who had tasted the hollow shams of Kensington.
“Isn’t there a museum there, and an Art Gallery?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, but you mayn’t touch anything, and you have to wear your hat!”
“You seem to object to clothing,” remarked the minister.
“Don’t you?” responded this discomposing child.
“Well, no, I can’t say I do. It’s warm, and----”
“Oh, it’s warm enough in Kensington, if that’s what you want!” and Wiggins turned to dig a fresh channel from his castle to the sea.
“M’sieu Wiggins, il faut aller à la maison pour le thé. Faites vos adieux à M’sieu le Curé!” and Madeleine, the pretty French _bonne_, folded up her crochet, and rose.
But Wiggins was smitten with deafness, and waded deeper into the water, with a seraphically unconscious look.