Christie, the King's Servant / A Sequel to Christie's Old Organ""

king my way over the masses of slippery seaweed, and breathing the fresh briny air. And all the morning I have been saying to myself, 'What can have made me dream of Runswick Bay? What can

brought it in triumphantly, and seized the best china vase in the drawing-room,

flowers! How could you put them in mother's best vase, that A

she will. She won't call them common flowers. She loves all yellow flowers. She said

told her that she was quite right; they were very beautiful in her eyes, and she

y eyes fell upon was Ella's bunch of yellow ragwort; and what could be

st write an account of my visit to Runswick Bay and give it to Ella, as it was her yellow flowers which took me back to

ou have been pronounced a rising artist, every daub from your brush has a good market value. I had had much uphill work, but I loved my profession for its own sake, and I wor

th father and mother to me. I felt that I needed change of scene, for I had been up for many nights with her during her last illness, and I had had my rest broken for so long, that I found it very difficult to sleep, and in many ways I was far from well. My aunt had left all her little property to me, so that the means to leave London and to take a suitable holiday were

able spot that Tom Bernard, my great f

hrusting a torn newspaper into

and a great red cross of Tom's making

WICK

ide resort is not

be. For the love

n artistic eye, it

fail to describe.

or artists; they,

beauties. It would

it this wonderful

to secure hotel

arly as possible,

t and September, f

pp

you think of

ing,' I said; 'fresh a

l you

I replied; 'the

ng materials were collected, and the very n

ked from the station; the country was slightly undulating in parts, but as a rule nothing met my gaze but a long flat stretch of field after field, covered, as the case might be, with grass or corn. Har

hey had engaged lodgings for a month at Runswick Bay. The children, two boys of ten and twelve

a?' they cried. 'Oh, we

ir father, 'and yo

ed them, and if ever I lagged behind, one or other of them wou

ness burst upon us. The small bay was shut in by rocks on either side, and on the descent of th

ishermen's cottages were perched on the rock, wherever a ledge or standing place could be found. Steep, narrow paths, or small flights of rock-hewn steps, led from one to another. There was no str

and at the irregular little town. I did not wonder that artists were to be found there. I had counted fou

poppies, pink-thrift and white daisies, all contributed to make the old rock gay. But the yellow ragwort was all over; great patches of it grew even on the margin of the sand, and its bright flowers gave the whole

ing to paint in Runswick Bay. I was n