The Rectory Children | Page 5

hear it, mother?'
'Yes,' Mrs. Fairchild replied. 'When I was a girl there was a French lady
came to live near us that I was very fond of; and she was very kind to
us. She sent me a beautiful present when I married. I called you after
her, you know, Celestina--I'm sure I've told you that before. Her name
was Célestine.'
'I remember,' the little girl replied; 'but I forgot about her being French.
I would like to see her, mother.'
'I do not know if she is still alive,' said Mrs. Fairchild. 'She must be an
old lady by now, if so. She went back to France many years ago; she

was in England with her husband, who had some business here. They
had no children, and she was always asking mother to let her adopt me.
But though there were so many of us, mother couldn't make up her
mind to spare one.'
'Things would have turned out pretty different for you, Mary, if she had.
You'd have been married to a French "mounseer" by now,' and he
laughed a little, as if there was something exceedingly funny in the idea.
Mr. Fairchild did not often laugh.
'Maybe,' his wife replied, smiling.
'I do hope they'll have a French governess,' said Celestina.
'Who? oh, the Miss Vanes,' said her father. 'Why, you are putting the
cart before the horse, child! We don't even know that the new
clergyman has any daughters--his family may be all boys. Besides, I
don't know when you'd be likely to see them or their governess either.'
'They'd be sure to come to the shop sometimes, father,' Celestina
replied eagerly. 'Even old Mrs. Bunton does--I've often seen her. And
there's no other shop for books and stationery at Seacove.'
Mr. Fairchild smiled at the pride with which she said this.
'It would be a bad job for me if there were,' he said, 'for as it is there's
barely custom for a shop of the kind,' and an anxious look came over
his face. But Mrs. Fairchild reminded him that if they did not finish the
chapter of Little Arthur quickly, it would be Celestina's bedtime, so the
talk changed to the Black Prince and his exploits.
CHAPTER II
THOSE YOUNG LADIES
'Leave me alone--I want to cry; It's no use trying to be good.'--ANON.
Six weeks or so later--Christmas and New Year's day were past; it was

the middle of January by this time--a little group of children might have
been seen standing on the shore about half a mile from Seacove.
Though midwinter, it was not very cold. There is a theory that it never
is very cold at the seaside. I cannot say that I have always found this
the case, but it was so at Seacove. It lay in a sheltered position, out of
the way of the east wind, and this was one reason why Mr. Vane had
decided to make it for a time the home of himself and his family.
These were his children--the group on the seashore. Rumour had
exaggerated a little in saying he had 'several.' There were but three of
them, and of these three two were girls. So Celestina Fairchild's
thoughts about them had some foundation after all.
'It looks just a little, a very little dreary,' said the eldest of the three, a
girl of thirteen or so, slight and rather tall for her age, with a pretty
graceful figure and pretty delicate features; 'but then of course it's the
middle of winter. Not that spring or summer would make much
difference here; there are so very few trees.'
She glanced round her as she spoke. It was a bare, almost
desolate-looking stretch of country, down to the sea, which was still
and gray-looking this morning. Yet there was a strange charm about it
too--the land, though by no means hilly, was undulating. Not far from
where the children stood there was a grand run of sand-hills, with
coarse, strong grass and a few hardy thistles, and, in its season,
bindweed with its white and pinky flowers, growing along their summit.
Farther off was a sort of skeleton-like erection, looking not unlike the
gaunt remains of a deserted sail-less ship: this was a landmark or
beacon, placed there to point out a sudden turn in the coastline. And out
at sea, a mile or so distant, stood a lighthouse with a revolving lantern;
three times in each minute the bright light was to be seen as soon as
night fell. A kind of natural breakwater ran out in a straight line to the
lighthouse, so that in low tides--and the tides are sometimes very low at
Seacove--it was difficult to believe but that you could get on foot all
the way to the