sand the evening before, were all wrapt in profound slumber.

Happy seaside children, who had paddled and delved on the beach to
their hearts' content, who had braved all the reproaches of mothers and
nurses, and had gone home with their buckets full of seaweed, pebbles,
and shells, looking like the veriest little ragged waifs and strays,
who were known as "the beach children," and who were an ever-moving
population gathered from the depths of the town, pattering with naked
feet round the boats as they came to shore, to pick up odd fish which
fell from the nets as they were spread out to dry.

A great expanse of sand stretches out from Yarmouth, and over this the
wind whistles through the long parched grass which grows in patches,
interspersed with the little pink mallow and stunted thistles, which
are not discouraged by their surroundings, and flourish in spite of
difficulties. This wide expanse of sand and sand-mounds is called the
Denes; and as little weary feet plod over it, it seems in its vastness
a very desert of Sahara. Yet there is a charm about the Denes which
the children feel. A sense of freedom, and a power to deal with the
sand after their own will, were checked by repeated exhortations from
governess or nurse to take care of their clothes. Yet the soft silvery
sand can do no harm, and a prick from a blade of the pointed grass, or
a scratch from a thistle, are the only dangers that beset it.

The town of Yarmouth lies at some distance from the sea, and possesses
one feature of rather unusual interest. There is a fine quay, shaded
by trees, alongside which many large ships from all countries lie.
There is a wide market-place and several good streets. But the heart
and core of the old town is to be found in the "rows," narrow
thoroughfares with tall houses on either side, where many a competency,
if not a fortune, has been made in days past.

Very little sunshine or light penetrates the rows, and some of the
inhabitants have a faded, washed-out look, like that of a plant shut in
a dark place, which shows but a faint colour of either leaves or
blossom.

Perhaps the pale woman standing by the door of a small shop, the
shutters of which were not yet taken down, was a fair specimen of her
neighbours. She was tall, but drooped so much that her real height was
lost. She had a sad face, where lines of care and anxiety had made a
network perhaps earlier in life than wrinkles had any right to appear,
if