There were real tragedies, too, although a casual visitor would never have guessed it.  For tragedies sink, and that is the end of them.  The cinematograph, to be sure, would reveal one from time to time, coming like a shadow across an endless feast, and gone again in a flash.  Such was what might appropriately be called the episode of the Alfred Ferns.  After three years of married life they had come, they had rented; the market had gone up, they had bought and built—­upon the sands.  The ancient farmhouse which had stood on the site had been torn down as unsuited to a higher civilization, although the great elms which had sheltered it had been left standing, in grave contrast to the twisted cedars and stunted oaks so much in evidence round about.

The Ferns—­or rather little Mrs. Fern—­had had taste, and the new house reflected it.  As an indication of the quality of imagination possessed by the owners, the place was called “The Brackens.”  There was a long porch on the side of the ocean, but a view of the water was shut off from it by a hedge which, during the successive ownerships of the adjoining property, had attained a height of twelve feet.  There was a little toy greenhouse connecting with the porch (an “economy” indulged in when the market had begun to go the wrong way for Mr. Fern).  Exile, although unpleasant, was sometimes found necessary at Quicksands, and even effective.

Above all things, however, if one is describing Quicksands, one must not be depressing.  That is the unforgiveable sin there.  Hence we must touch upon these tragedies lightly.

If, after walking through the entrance in the hedge that separated the Brackens from the main road, you turned to the left and followed a driveway newly laid out between young poplars, you came to a mass of cedars.  Behind these was hidden the stable.  There were four stalls, all replete with brass trimmings, and a box, and the carriage-house was made large enough for the break which Mr. Fern had been getting ready to buy when he had been forced, so unexpectedly, to change his mind.

If the world had been searched, perhaps, no greater contrast to Rivington could have been found than this delightful colony of quicksands, full of life and motion and colour, where everybody was beautifully dressed and enjoying themselves.  For a whole week after her instalment Honora was in a continual state of excitement and anticipation, and the sound of wheels and voices on the highroad beyond the hedge sent her peeping to her curtains a dozen times a day.  The waking hours, instead of burdens, were so many fleeting joys.  In the morning she awoke to breathe a new, perplexing, and delicious perfume—­the salt sea breeze stirring her curtains:  later, she was on the gay, yellow-ochre beach with Lily Dallam, making new acquaintances; and presently stepping, with a quiver of fear akin to delight, into the restless, limitless blue water that stretched southward under