Tall, rocky cliffs they were that frowned darkling over the northern ocean--rocks that for thousands of years had borne the brunt of the battle and the breeze, summer's sun and winter's storm. Hard as adamant were they, imperishable, for ne'er a stone had they parted with, and the grass grew up to the very foot. The 'Gipsy Queen' was anchored fast to the greensward where the sea-pinks grew, and many a rare little wild-flower. And this sward was hard and firm, so that though gales might sweep along the links and level the tents it could only rock and sway the 'Gipsy Queen.' Silence gradually fell over the encampment. Guys had been slackened round the tents, for the dews of night and the sea's salt spray would tauten the canvas long ere morning. The shouting of orders ceased and gave place to the twanging of harp-strings, the sweet strains of violin music, and voices raised in song. But these also ceased at last, and after this nothing could be heard save the occasional sonorous baying of some great hound on watch and the drowsy roar of the outgoing tide. But soon The tide Would sigh farther off, As human sorrow sighs in sleep. It occurred to Antony to look out just once before retiring for the night. So he passed through the saloon and gently opened the door. The white tents moving in the moonlight, the big black barn of a theatre, the gray, uncertain sea touched here and there with the sheen of moon and silver stars. Was that all? No; for not far from his own great caravan was a cosy, broad-wheeled gipsy-cart, from the wee curtained window of which a crimson light streamed over the yellow sand. It must be Lotty's and Wallace's he believed. And there was a sense of companionship in the very thought that they were so near to him. So Antony locked his door and retired. * * * * * Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat. It is next morning now. Rat-tat. 'Hallo! hallo!' roared Antony. 'What on earth'---- Then, remembering where he was, he jumped out of bed, flew through the saloon, and opened the back-door. A great, fat young face beamed up at him from the foot of the steps like a setting sun. 'It's only me, sir. It's only Chops, come for your boots, sir.' 'Here you are, Chops lad. But mind you don't black these; they're patent leather.' 'Lo'd love ye, sir, I knows to a nicety. I never does black patenters. Only just spits on 'em, sir. Back presently, sir, wi' your cup o' tea.' The figure retreated, taking the fat face and the patent leather boots with it, and Frank Antony Blake yawned a bit and then proceeded to dress, wondering to himself what pleasure, if any, the coming day might bring him. CHAPTER IV. 'EVER BEEN AN INFANT PRODIGY?' SAID LOTTY.