Tom Gerrard

To “ALREMA” I DEDICATE THIS STORY OF HER FATHER'S NATIVE LAND Caen, France. 1904.
“Hallo! young lady, what on earth are you doing here?” and Gerrard bent down over his horse's shoulder, and looked inquiringly into the face of a small and exceedingly ill-clad girl of about ten years of age.
“Nothing, sir, I only came out for a walk, and to get some pippies.”
“And where do you get them?”
“Down there, sir, on the sand,” and the child pointed with a strong, sun-browned hand to the beach, which was within a mile.
“Eat them?”
“Yes—they're lovely. Jim and I roast them in the stockman's kitchen when auntie has gone to bed.”
“And who is Jim?”
“Jim Incubus; I'm Mary Incubus.”
“Mary what ?”
“Incubus, sir.”
Gerrard dismounted, and tying his reins to a stirrup, let his horse graze. Then taking his pipe out of his pocket, he filled and lit it, and motioned to the child to sit down beside him upon a fallen honeysuckle tree.