“Kitty,” he murmured under his breath; and again, “Kitty!” Then, with the cigarette burning, he blew a cloud of purple smoke out of the window into the June sunshine and nodded his head confidentially towards the garden and the house. “Kitty of the Roses,” he whispered. [Illustration] [Illustration] II Towns, like persons, have individuality, some distinct, others indistinct. By the individuality of some we are attracted, by that of others we are repelled. There are some that are sour, selfish, intent only upon themselves, that give us a scowl of suspicion for greeting and turn their shoulder as one who would say “I don’t know you and I don’t want to. I am very busy; keep out of my way.” Then there are towns that shout us a laughing “Hello,” that shake our hand and pat our back, merry, care-free, pleasure-pursuing towns these that make us welcome so long as we laugh and sing with them, but have no love for us when we frown or weep. [Illustration] There are frankly mercenary towns whose greetings are shrewd and sober and whose eyes seek our pocket-book even as the door closes behind us. In such towns our welcome is likely to be just as long as our bank account, but, at least, we will find no hypocrisy. And then there are towns that are like--well, like a genial, kindly-faced fellow who sits on a bench in the sunlight whittling a stick, gives us a neighborly nod and moves along that we may sit beside him. He doesn’t take our hand, he doesn’t look askance at our frayed cuffs and battered valise, but, after awhile, if he likes us he offers us a stick that we, too, may whittle, or, maybe, he shoves his tobacco along to us. Perhaps as we sit there in the sunlight and watch him we wonder why he doesn’t work; after we have stayed awhile we cease wondering and find ourself content to whittle and smoke in the sunshine and let the world wag along. [Illustration] And there are many other sorts of towns, just as many as there are sorts of personality; hard, cross-grained towns; fretful, grumpy towns; alert, busy, inhospitable towns; lazy, dirty towns; nervous, hysterical towns, and mean, rapacious towns. It takes all sorts to make a world, and even in the worst of them, if we know them intimately enough, we may find virtues large enough to atone for the faults. And all this sermonizing merely as an introduction to a little country town that is barely on the ordinary map and that not one person in fifty--no, not one in a hundred, perhaps--has ever heard of. [Illustration] Belle Harbour is a town that whittles in the sunshine. It is a sleepy, good-natured, courteous old town with a picturesque past and a dubious future.