Soon all the children were gathered round the hearthrug chattering like pies, and loudly choosing various stories.
“I think the Smugglers’ Cave.”
“No, I think Turn-Churn Willie.”
“No, no, about highwaymen.”
“Another witch story, please.”
“No, smugglers, smugglers.”
“And smugglers it shall be,” interposed Mrs. Inchbald, in a voice that allowed no arguing.
And then and there she began the following tale:—
I must ask you, dear children, to wing your imagination and come with me to a tawny-cliffed village on the coast of Kent. When the tide is far out there are miles of sand, and here when the sun sets in November, you may see a beautiful effect of colour. The flaming skies are duplicated in the moistened sands, so that the whole firmament is imaged in the earth around you.
Again, on summer evenings, these sands will reflect the long shafts of amber light, so that the failing day will take new life from them, seeming to recover once again its golden morning beams.