Soon all the children were gathered round the hearthrug chattering like pies, and loudly choosing various stories. “I think the Smugglers’ Cave.” “No, I think Turn-Churn Willie.” “No, no, about highwaymen.” “Another witch story, please.” “No, smugglers, smugglers.” “And smugglers it shall be,” interposed Mrs. Inchbald, in a voice that allowed no arguing. And then and there she began the following tale:-- I must ask you, dear children, to wing your imagination and come with me to a tawny-cliffed village on the coast of Kent. When the tide is far out there are miles of sand, and here when the sun sets in November, you may see a beautiful effect of colour. The flaming skies are duplicated in the moistened sands, so that the whole firmament is imaged in the earth around you. Again, on summer evenings, these sands will reflect the long shafts of amber light, so that the failing day will take new life from them, seeming to recover once again its golden morning beams. Look at the smaller picture by Bonington, and you will see what I mean. The sands stretch beyond you inimitably, steeped in the rosy and golden colours of the sky. In the year 1819, the practice of smuggling had reached a point of such craft and effrontery, that only by special methods did the authorities hope to check its course. They realised that in having local spies, in getting help from the village people themselves, lay the best chance of permanently quelling it. So it happened that as one Daniel Maidment was digging in his garden, situated in the village that I have described, a spruce and very dapper gentleman on horseback reined up beside his gate. “Good-morning to you. Am I addressing Mr. Daniel Maidment of the village of Stowe-i’-the-Knowe?” [Illustration: _Remington_ ON THE SEA-SHORE] “That’s my name, and that’s my village,” answered Daniel, and he stood leaning on his spade. “I have a little matter of business with you, my man,” continued the stranger in that particular voice in which some people talk to children, or use when they address such as they consider their inferiors. “You may find it to your advantage to give me your attention for a little while. With your permission, I will walk into your house.” The rider dismounted, and tying his horse to the gate-post, went up the gravel path to the cottage door. Daniel followed, and set a chair by the table, at which an old woman sat making lace. Her eyes were blind, as you might see by their wide dimness, and by the extreme serenity of her face. This is a quality that accompanies blindness. All signs of anxiety, of transient expression, are smoothed away, and all fretful activity; the features are set in the beauty of a great repose. But her hands plied with swiftness the work on a lace pillow, with a pleasant recurrency of sound the wooden bobbins flew round, and about the shining pins.