Connie’s face brightened as if she had not seen her mother for a fortnight. My Ethelwyn always brought the home gladness that her name signified with her. She was a centre of radiating peace. “Mamma, don’t you think that’s Wynnie’s bonnet over that black rock there, just beyond where you see that man drawing?” “You absurd child! How should I know Wynnie’s bonnet at this distance?” “Can’t you see the little white feather you gave her out of your wardrobe just before we left? She put it in this morning before she went out.” “I think I do see something white. But I want you to look out there, towards what they call the Chapel Rock, at the other end of that long mound they call the breakwater. You will soon see a boat appear full of the coast-guard. I saw them going on board just as I left the house to come up to you. Their officer came down with his sword, and each of the men had a cutlass. I wonder what it can mean.” We looked. But before the boat made its appearance, Connie cried out-- “Look there! What a big boat that is rowing for the land, away northwards there!” I turned my eyes in the direction she indicated, and saw a long boat with some half-dozen oars, full of men, rowing hard, apparently for some spot on the shore at a considerable distance to the north of our bay. “Ah!” I said, “that boat has something to do with the coast-guard and their cutlasses. You’ll see that, as soon as they get out of the bay, they will row in the same direction.” So it was. Our boat appeared presently from under the concealment of the heights on which we were, and made at full speed after the other boat. “Surely they can’t be smugglers,” I said. “I thought all that was over and done with.” In the course of another twenty minutes, during which we watched their progress, both boats had disappeared behind the headland to the northward. Then, thinking Connie had had nearly enough of the sea air for her first experience of its influences, I went and fetched Walter, and we carried her back as we had brought her. She had not been in the shadow of her own room for five minutes before she was fast asleep. It was now nearly time for our early dinner. We always dined early when we could, that we might eat along with our children. We were both convinced that the only way to make them behave like ladies and gentlemen was to have them always with us at meals. We had seen very unpleasant results in the children of those who allowed them to dine with no other supervision than the nursery afforded: they were a constant anxiety and occasional horror to those whom they visited--snatching like monkeys, and devouring like jackals, as selfishly as if they were mere animals. “O! we’ve seen such a nice gentleman!” said Dora, becoming lively under the influence of her soup. “Have you, Dora? Where?” “Sitting on the rocks, taking a portrait of the sea.” “What makes you say he was a nice gentleman?”