n him.

This farm was a lonesome place close to the sea; there was no appearance
of prosperity about it. Caius knew that the farmer, Day by name, was a
churl, and was said to keep his family on short rations of happiness. As
Caius turned off the public road he was not thinking specially of the
bleak appearance of the particular piece of farmland he was crossing, or
of the reputation of the family who lived upon the increase of its
acres; but his attention was soon drawn to three children swinging on a
gate which hung loosely in the log fence not far from the house. The
eldest was an awkward-looking girl about twelve years of age; the second
was a little boy; the youngest was a round-limbed, blond baby of two or
three summers. The three stood upon the lowest bar of the gate, clinging
to the upper spars. The eldest leaned her elbows on the top and looked
over; the baby embraced the middle bar and looked through. They had set
the rickety gate swinging petulantly, and it latched and unlatched
itself with the sort of sound that the swaying of some dreary wind would
give it. The children seemed to swing there, not because they were
happy, but because they were miserable.

As Caius came with light step up the lane, fishing gear over his
shoulder, the children looked at him disconsolately, and when he
approached the gate the eldest stepped down and pulled it open for him.

"Anything the matter?" he asked, stopping his quick tread, and turning
when he had passed through.

The big girl did not answer, but she let go the gate, and when it jerked
forward the baby fell.

She did not fall far, nor was she hurt; but as Caius picked her up and
patted her cotton clothes to shake the dust out of them, it seemed to
him that he had never seen so sad a look in a baby's eyes. Large, dark,
dewy eyes they were, circled around with curly lashes, and they looked
up at him out of a wistful little face that was framed by a wreath of
yellow hair. Caius lifted the child, kissed her, put her down, and went
on his way. He only gave his action half a thought at the time, but all
his life afterwards he was sorry that he had let the baby go out of his
arms again, and thankful that he had given her that one kiss.

His path now lay close by the house and on to the sea-cliff behind. The
house stood in front of him--four bare wooden walls, brown painted, and
without veranda or ornament; its barns, large and ugly, were close
beside it. Beyond, some stun