It was not a long walk to the shore if we had followed the direct route; but I wanted to see the pretty village of Netherton more closely; so we walked past the church and down the main street, and turned off by the row of bungalows that skirted the cliff, and, crossing the cornfields, made our way down a narrow cutting to a little strip of shingly beach, with its border of yellow sands washed by the summer surf. I would willingly have sat under the breakwater all the afternoon, watching the baby waves lapping upon the sands, and laying driblets of brown and green seaweed on the shore, while Reggie brought me wet pebbles and little dried up crabs and empty mussel shells, but Rolf wanted me to help with his sand castle; indeed, we were all pressed into the service; even Reggie dug up tiny dabs of sand and flung it at us, under the belief that he was helping too. What a pretty scene it was, when the castle was finished, and its ramparts adorned with long green festoons and pennants of brown ribbons; and Reggie sat at the top kicking his little bare legs with delight, while Rolf dug the trench down to the sea, which filled and bubbled over in a miniature lake, in which disported the luckless crabs and jelly fish which he had collected for his aquarium. There is something sad in the transitoriness of children’s play on the shore; they are so eager to build up their sand towers and mounds. When the feeble structure is finished the little workpeople give a cry of joy, as though some great task were accomplished. Then the waves creep up stealthily; there is a little cold lisping outside the outworks, as though the treacherous foes were lurking around; in a few seconds the toy castle is in ruins. The children look at the grey pool that has engulfed their treasure with wide, disappointed eyes. “Oh, the greedy sea,” they say, “it has destroyed our castle!” But to-morrow they will come again with beautiful childish faith and build another, and still another, until some new game is proposed, or they are weary of play. It was quite late in the afternoon when we turned our faces homeward. Joyce was tired, so we put her in the perambulator, and I carried Reggie. Rolf hung behind rather sulkily; fatigue evidently made him cross; but he brightened up in an instant when the sound of horses’ hoofs struck on our ears, and in another moment a little cavalcade came in sight—Miss Cheriton mounted on her pretty brown mare Brownie, and her father and Mr. Hawtry on each side of her. She smiled and waved her hand to us, and Mr. Hawtry raised his hat slightly. They would have passed on, but Rolf exclaimed, “Oh, do take me up for a ride, Mr. Hawtry, I am so tired!” and Mr. Hawtry looked at Miss Cheriton, and pulled up at once.