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T was early in November, but if you had lain by Nan's side on the beach
basking in the sunshine you would scarcely have guessed it. The air was
mild and warm, and there were no trees near to betray what sad havoc
blustering fall winds had made with the foliage. Old ocean was as blue
and still as in midsummer, with just a single line of breakers falling
at regular intervals on the hard white beach. Nan was fairly glorying in
the June-like day, feeling there could hardly be such another till June
herself should have come round again. The boys had gone off for the
afternoon on some sort of an expedition, never so much as asking her to
accompany them, but she was not sorry to be left at home. She was one
of those little people who, like some big people, loved to have a chance
for a quiet think now and then, and lying there by herself she was
supremely happy and tranquil. She had been there fully an hour, and for
a while had been busy building a little castle in the sand, making a
foundation of clam shells, and using an old bottle for a tower.
Most of the time she had been “just thinking,” and thinking so hard that
she did not notice some one coming nearer and nearer until, suddenly
looking up, her eyes met those of a stranger. She was a pretty little
picture lying there flat on the sand, with her dimpled face propped
comfortably between her hands.
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“I wonder what you are thinking about, my little friend,” said the
new comer, kindly. “I know from your face that your thoughts are happy
thoughts?”
“Pretty foolish ones, I guess you'd call them!” laughed Nan, for there
was something about the stranger that at once won her confidence.
“I'm not so sure of that,” he answered; “but a stranger has no right to
ask you what they were, so good-bye, my little dreamer.”
“I wish you would not go,” said Nan, sitting up and smoothing out her
dress; “I would like to talk to you, because I think you look like a
minister, and I never spoke to a real minister before.”
“Well, you shall now,” he answered, sitting down beside her, “for you
have guessed rightly, and for that matter there is nothing the minister
would rather do than talk to you for a while.”
There was a little pause, and then Nan asked hesitatingly, as though she
feared to seem rude, “You don't belong about here, do you?”
“No, but I almost wish I did. I love the sea with all my heart, so that
I have hard work to keep from saying something about it in every sermon
I preach. But if I do not belong about here, it is very certain that you
do. You must have lived by the ocean week in and week out, to get that
shade of blue into your eyes.”
“That's what Reginald says!” laughed Nan.
“And who is Reginald?”
“Why, Reginald Fairfax; he's staying with us while his father and mother
are in Europe. The poor little fellow broke his leg last summer, and
Sister Julia is here too, to take care of him, but he's almost well now.
I wish you knew Sister Julia. She comes from one of the great hospitals
in New York, and she is the loveliest person you ever saw.”
“Well, I should say I did know her,” answered the minister. “She goes to
my church in town, and so do Mr. and Mrs. Fairfax; and Regie and I are
the best of friends.”
“Why, are you Mr. Vale?” queried Nan, astonished, for the name of the
young minister had often been on Regie's lips.
“Yes, I am,” he answered, laughing, as though he must own up to the
truth.
“But what are you doing here?”
“Well, I'll tell you. Do you see that red-tiled cottage yonder?”
pointing down the beach.
“Do you mean Mr. Avery's?” for Nan knew the name of every resident in
the neighbourhood of Moorlow.
“Yes; Mr. Avery is a friend of mine, and stays down here, you know,
quite late into the fall, so he asked me to bring my sister, who is
quite an invalid, to his cottage, thinking the change would do her good.
So here we are; we came this morning, but I am obliged to go back to the
city again this afternoon.”
“Oh, dear! I'm sorry for that,” said Nan, regretfully, “I would so much
have liked to hear you preach.”
“Well, that is very kind of you. Perhaps you can some time, when you
come to New York to visit Regie. By the way, where is he?”
“Oh, he's off with my brother Harry this afternoon, and I don't believe
they'll be home before supper time.”
“That's too bad, but I shall probably see him the next time I come.”
“Oh, you are coming again then!” exclaimed Nan, her face brightening.
“Yes, surely. Once a week, at least, so long as my sister stays. And
now, suppose you tell me something about yourself. Your name is----”
“Nannie--Nannie Murray,” answered Nan.
“And you live----”
“In that brown cottage behind us there on the bluff,” nodding her head
in the direction of the house.
“And you have lived there always?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, proudly.
“Then you are a fortunate little maiden. To have grown up by the sea is
something to be very thankful for. It seems a pity to live in town when
one loves the sea and open country as much as I do.”
“Why don't you come down here?” urged Nan. “There are plenty of houses.”
“But the bother of it is there are plenty of people in town, and the
preacher must stay near the people. It is more beautiful and wonderful,
you know, to be able to help a soul struggle up toward high-water mark,
than even to watch the tide come in as we are doing. But I think I must
be talking quite over your head. Now that we are friends, perhaps you
will not mind telling me what you were thinking about when I so rudely
interrupted you?”
“Do you see that schooner, away off there?” Nan answered. “Well, when
you came it was right in front of me, and I was pretending it was
sailing away to a beautiful island with a crowd of poor city children
on board, who had never been very well, or had a very happy time, and
I pretended they were already beginning to look fresh and rosy with the
salt breeze blowing in their faces; and I made believe that some of the
children had a glass, and were looking here at me on the beach, and that
some of them thought I was a mermaid, and others a queer sort of a fish.
Now I suppose you think those were pretty foolish thoughts, don't you?”
“Not a bit of it. It is like a fairy story, only better. But before you
began to build a castle in the air, I see you built a little one here
in the sand. I suppose you have peopled this with a lot of queer little
people of your own too.”
“No,” said Nan, honestly, “I don't make up things much, except when I am
just looking out to sea.”
“Have you ever thought, Nan,” said Mr. Vale, earnestly, as he banked
up a falling wall of her castle with his hand, “that your own life is a
sort of little castle, wonderfully made, richly furnished, beautiful and
hopeful to look upon? It is fitting that only One should live in that
fair house--He who is purity and goodness and truth Himself. Ask Him to
come and dwell within you, to look out of your eyes, to hear with your
ears, to speak through your lips, to guide your hands and your feet.”
“You mean Jesus, don't you?” asked Nan, looking frankly into his face
with sweet simplicity.
“Yes, my little friend, I do.”
“Well, it is just like a sermon.”
“But you said, you know, that you would like to hear me preach.”
“Yes, I did,” answered Nan, thoughtfully, gathering up a handful of sand
and letting it sift through her fingers, “and I like your preaching; I
like it very much indeed.”
“Thank you,” and Mr. Vale looked as though he deeply appreciated Nan's
honest praise; “but it is high time the preacher was off. There is the
train whistle now! give my love to Regie, and I shall surely run over to
see him next week when I come down.”
Nan watched her new friend hurrying away to the station, and stood
transfixed till a low sand-hill hid him from sight. Then she scampered
to the house to tell of her good fortune.
As soon as Regie came home, and while he was making a hurried toilet for
supper, Nan ran into his room, and curling herself up on the window-box,
commenced, for the third time (for Sister Julia and Mrs. Murray had
already been favoured), to give an excited narration of the afternoon's
experiences.
“Oh, Regie!” she began, “I've had the most splendid time--a good long
chat with a real live minister. He came from the city, and he told me
the nicest things, sort of preached, you know; and he loves the sea just
as much as I do, and his sister is staying up at the Averys', so he's
coming again. He's a young minister, Regie, and he has the loveliest
face.”
“I don't like men with lovely faces,” said Regie, scornfully.
“Well, you'd like his face, Regie. It was like a great strong angel's
face, and he told me he knew you, and for me to give you his love, and
to tell you that when he came again he would surely come and see----”
“You don't mean Mr. Vale, do you?” cried Regie
“That's just who I do mean,” Nan answered, complacently.
“Oh, dear me! why wasn't I round? Are you sure he's coming again?”
“Sure,” said Nan, wondering if it was selfish to be glad that just this
once Regie had not been “round” at all, and that she had the young;
clergyman quite to herself.
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