First, we must imagine a real summer’s day, such a day as in our island we seldom enjoy till summer has well-nigh given place to autumn, but which, when it does come, is worth waiting for. Talk of climate! a real fine day in England, like a really handsome Englishwoman, beats creation. Well, we must imagine one of these bright, hot, hay-making days, almost too warm and dusty ashore, but enjoyable beyond conception on the calm and oily waves, unruffled by the breeze, and literally as smooth as glass. A sea-bird occasionally dips her wing on the surface, and then flaps lazily away, as if she too was as much inclined to go to sleep as yonder moveless fleet of lugger, brig, bark, and schooner, with their empty sails, and their heads all round the compass. There is a warm haze towards the land, and the white houses of St. Swithin’s seem to glow and sparkle in the heat, whilst to seaward a modified sort of mirage would make one fancy one could plainly distinguish the distant coast of France. Ashore, in those great houses, people are panting, and gasping, and creating thorough draughts that fill their rooms with a small white dust of a destructive tendency to all personal property. The children up-stairs are running about in linen under-garments, somewhat more troublesome than usual, with a settled flush on their little peach-like cheeks, and the shining streets are deserted, save by the perspiring pot-boy, and the fly-men drinking beer in their shirt sleeves. Only afloat is there a chance of being cool; and sailing-boat, gig, dinghy, and cobble, all are in requisition for the throng of amateur mariners, rushing like ducklings to the refreshing element. It was on just such a day as this that Mrs. Kettering found it extremely difficult to “trim the boat.” A mile or so from the shore, that boat was slowly progressing, impelled by the unequal strength of her nephew Charles, commonly called “Cousin Charlie,” and its worthy proprietor, a fine specimen of the genus “seaman,” who certainly had a Christian name, and probably a patronymic, but had sunk both distinctions under the sobriquet of “Hairblower,” by which appellation alone he was acknowledged by gentle and simple, bold and timid, delicate ladies and bluff fishermen, along many a mile of sea-board, up and down from St. Swithin’s. “The least thing further, Master Charles,” said Hairblower, ever and anon pulling the stripling’s efforts round with one hand. “Don’t ye disturb, madam--don’t ye move, Miss Blanche; it’s not _your_ weight that makes her roll.” And again he moistened the large, strong hand, and turned to look out ahead.