Without stopping to knock, the young man stepped directly into a clean, low-ceiled kitchen, where white sand was scattered on the stone floor.
"Are you there, Mrs. Trott?" he inquired.
Hastily setting down the pan of potatoes she was peeling, a pleasant-looking stout woman rose to her feet with a curtsy.
"If it isn't Mr. Max!" she exclaimed, her voice expressing both surprise and delight.
"And as usual seeking help, Mrs. Trott. This young lady, Miss Frances, has been unlucky enough to be overtaken by the tides—"
"Poor dear!" interrupted Mrs. Trott. "Bess!" she called, "come you down. Ah, 'tis the tides that make the Jersey heartaches. Ye did quite right to bring her, Mr. Max. Bess, be quick!"
A rosy-cheeked girl of seventeen came clattering down the tiny stair, to smile at the visitors and drop an awkward, blushing curtsy to each.
"Why, Bess, you're quite grown up," said the young man, smiling back at her.
"A year does make a differ, sir," said Mrs. Trott. "Lead the young leddy up the stair, Bess, and dry her feet and give her your Sunday socks and shoon. Mr. Max, you'll drink tea? Sure, now, and taste my fresh wonders. The young leddy'll be down directly and a cup of tea will set her up."
"Indeed, I could do with some tea, Mrs. Trott, and I've not had any wonders since—"