Mrs. Henry Goldsmith’s newest seaside resort had the artistic charm which characterized everything she selected.  It was a straggling, hilly, leafy village, full of archaic relics—­human as well as architectural—­sloping down to a gracefully curved bay, where the blue waves broke in whispers, for on summer days a halcyon calm overhung this magic spot, and the great sea stretched away, unwrinkled, ever young.  There were no neutral tones in the colors of this divine picture—­the sea was sapphire, the sky amethyst.  There were dark-red houses nestling amid foliage, and green-haired monsters of gray stone squatted about on the yellow sand, which was strewn with quaint shells and mimic earth-worms, cunningly wrought by the waves.  Half a mile to the east a blue river rippled into the bay.  The white bathing tents which Mrs. Goldsmith had pitched stood out picturesquely, in harmonious contrast with the rich boscage that began to climb the hills in the background.

Mrs. Goldsmith’s party lived in the Manse; it was pretty numerous, and gradually overflowed into the bedrooms of the neighboring cottages.  Mr. Goldsmith only came down on Saturday, returning on Monday.  One Friday Mr. Percy Saville, who had been staying for the week, left suddenly for London, and next day the beautiful hostess poured into her husband’s projecting ears a tale that made him gnash his projecting teeth, and cut the handsome stockbroker off his visiting-list for ever.  It was only an indiscreet word that the susceptible stockbroker had spoken—­under the poetic influences of the scene.  His bedroom came in handy, for Sidney unexpectedly dropped down from Norway, via London, on the very Friday.  The poetic influences of the scene soon infected the newcomer, too.  On the Saturday he was lost for hours, and came up smiling, with Addie on his arm.  On the Sunday afternoon the party went boating up the river—­a picturesque medley of flannels and parasols.  Once landed, Sidney and Addie did not return for tea, prior to re-embarking.  While Mr. Montagu Samuels was gallantly handing round the sugar, they were sitting somewhere along the bank, half covered with leaves, like babes in the wood.  The sunset burned behind the willows—­a fiery rhapsody of crimson and orange.  The gay laughter of the picnic-party just reached their ears; otherwise, an almost solemn calm prevailed—­not a bird twittered, not a leaf stirred.

“It’ll be all over London to-morrow,” said Sidney in a despondent tone.

“I’m afraid so,” said Addie, with a delicious laugh.

The sweet English meadows over which her humid eyes wandered were studded with simple wild-flowers.  Addie vaguely felt the angels had planted such in Eden.  Sidney could not take his eyes off his terrestrial angel clad in appropriate white.  Confessed love had given the last touch to her intoxicating beauty.  She gratified his artistic sense almost completely.  But she seemed to satisfy deeper instincts, too.  As he looked into her limpid, trustful eyes, he felt he had been a weak fool.  An irresistible yearning to tell her all his past and crave forgiveness swept over him.