4 THE HALL OF SHELLS. 
Almost before her sentence was finished, 
Tom, who spied a stranger working a dip net 
down the beach, with true boyish instinct had 
sped away to the scene of interest. 
Still Miss Bremely mused in the hazy sun- 
shine, the water lappmg lightly against the 
rock upon which she sat. Bending over its 
ledge she gathered tangles of sea kelp the 
waves laid at her feet. 
“Thank you, dear old Sea,” she said; “you 
are gentle and sing like a siren to-day; to-mor- 
row you may roar like an army of Titans. 
Ah, well, your calms and silvery tides are all 
the dearer to us because of your depths we 
can not fathom, your storms we can not | 
quell.” 
Kneeling upon the sand she bent her head 
until the mecoming waves touched her forehead 
with their crystal chrism, then rising she took 
her hamper of shells and started along an as- 
cending pathway to a cottage not far distant 
among acacia trees. ‘The cottage was her 
home. Turning from its main entrance she 
chose a winding flight of steps leading to a 
small balcony. There she paused before an 
open door and a childish voice greeted her 
with, “O Cousin Ellen, you look lke a mer- 
maid !” 
