



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Volume One, Chapter I.

HIS HOUSE.

Early morning at Saltinville, with the tide down, and the calm sea
shimmering like damasked and deadened silver in the sunshine.  Here and
there a lugger was ashore, delivering its take of iris-hued mackerel to
cart and basket, as a busy throng stood round, some upon the sands, some
knee-deep in water, and all eager to obtain a portion of the fresh fish
that fetched so good a price amongst the visitors to the town.

The trawler was coming in, too, with its freight of fine thick soles and
turbot, with a few gaily-scaled red mullet; and perhaps a staring-eyed
John Dory or two, from the trammel net set overnight amongst the rocks:
all choice fish, these, to be bought up ready for royal and noble use,
for London would see no scale of any of the fish caught that night.

The unclouded sun flashed from the windows of the houses on the cliff,
giving them vivid colours that the decorator had spared, and lighting up
the downs beyond, so that from the sea Saltinville looked a very picture
of all that was peaceful and bright.  There were no huge stucco palaces
to mar the landscape, for all was modest as to architecture, and as
fresh as green and stone- paint applied to window-frame, veranda
and shutter could make it.  Flowers of variety were not plentiful, but
great clusters of orange marigolds flourished bravely, and, with
broad-disked sunflowers, did no little towards giving warmth of colour
to the place.  There had been no storms of late--no windy nights when
the spray was torn from the tops of waves to fly in showers over the
houses, and beat