Uncle Bobo was as good as his word, and on Thursday morning sallied forth early to the confectioner's shop at the end of the row, and returned with a variety of paper bags stuffed full of cakes, and chucking them across the counter to Susan, said—
"Spread the tea up aloft, as the child wishes it; it's cool up there, and plenty of air."
Tea on the leads may not seem to many who read my story a very enchanting prospect, but to little Joy it was like tea in Paradise!
The houses of the rows had many of them flat roofs behind the gables, which faced those opposite, and here flowers were cultivated by those who cared to do so, linen was hung out to dry, and in one or two instances pet doves cooed, or poor caged thrushes sang their prison song.
Susan grumbled not a little at carrying up the provisions; but the boy Peter was pressed into the service, and Uncle Bobo brought up an old flag, which Peter tied to a pole, and set up to wave its rather faded colours over the feast.
While these preparations were being made, Mrs. Harrison, and little Joy, and Bertha Skinner were on their way to the beach to watch the pleasure-boats pulling off with the visitors, and the children making their sand-castles and houses, and paddling in the pools the sea had left. The tide was ebbing, and wide patches of yellow sand were separated from the beach by streams of water; sea-weeds threw out their pink feathery fronds, and shells of many varied colours lay beneath.
Mrs. Harrison sat down, leaning her back against a boat, and the children ran down to the water's edge.
The wife and mother was sad at heart; not one word from Jack—not one word. She looked across the boundless sea, and thought how it had taken from her the husband of her youth, and the boy who was the light of her eyes. Why was she so tried? Why was her trouble always to be, as it were, in one direction, her position always suspense, always uncertainty, always waiting and watching, and dreading what news might come at last?
George Paterson was a ship's carpenter, and well known along the coast and on the quay. He had made every inquiry, but could not get any direct tidings of Jack.
Several ships had sailed early that fine morning—the Galatea, for Constantinople; the Siren, for a Norwegian port; the Mermaid, for Genoa; but no one had any recollection of noticing a boy go aboard. Indeed, there were but few people who could have seen him, for few were stirring at that early hour, except those who were obliged to be at their post at sea or on shore, and they were probably too much engrossed with their own concerns to heed him, even if he had been seen.