emper, too, for a week past had not been at its best. She, like her
mistress, had missed Nandy. In spite of his faults he was a help: and,
as for faults, who in this wicked world is without 'em? It's by means of
their faults that you grow accustomed to folks.

The early afternoon was hot and thundery, and the hum of the bees
(Aunt Barbree was famous for her honey) came lazy-like through the open
window. Susannah prayed to the Lord that this quiet might last--until
four o'clock, at any rate. Short of an earthquake in Plymouth (which,
being pious, she didn't dare to pray for) nothing would ward off visitors
beyond that hour, but, with luck, Aunt Barbree might be expected back soon
after five, when the giving of change would begin. Susannah looked at the
clock. The time was close upon half-past two. She might, with any luck,
count on another hour.

But it wasn't to be.

She had scarcely turned from studying the clock to open the sliding door
of the china-cupboard and set out her stock of plates and cups and
saucers, before her ear caught the sound of voices--of loud voices too--on
the steps above the landing-quay: and almost before she could catch her
breath there came a knock on the door fit to wake the dead. Susannah
whipped up her best apron off the chair where she had laid it ready to
hand, and hurried out, pinning it about her.

The first sight she saw when she opened the door was a sailorman standing
there under the verandah, and smiling at her with a shiny, good-natured
face. He was rigged out in best shore-going clothes--tarpaulin hat, blue
coat and waistcoat, and duck trousers, with a broad waist-belt of leather.
Behind him stood another sailorman, older and more gloomy looking; and
behind the pair of them Susannah's eye ranged over half a dozen seedy
tide-waiters and longshoremen, all very bashful-looking, and crowded among
a bevy of damsels of the sort that you might best describe as painted
hussies.

"Good afternoon, ma'am," said the sailorman, with a pacifying sort of
smile.

"Good afternoon," said Susannah, catching her breath. "But, all the same,
this isn't Babylon."

"You serve teas here, ma'am?"

"No, we don't," answers Susannah, very sturdy.

"Then the board hav' made a mistake," said the sailor, scratching the back
of his head and pushing his tarpaulin hat forward and sideways over his
eyebrows. "It _said_ that you was patronised by the naval and military,
and that teas was provid