mother walked after, protesting sharply, holding the shirt like a noose, and the father's bronze voice rang out, and the naked child wallowing on its back in the deep sheepskin announced gleefully:

“I'm bading in the sea, mother.”

“Why should I walk after you with your shirt?” said the mother.

“Get up now.”

“I'm bading in the sea, mother,” repeated the wallowing, naked figure.

“We say bathing, not bading,” said the mother, with her strange, indifferent dignity. “I am waiting here with your shirt.”

At length shirts were on, and stockings were paired, and little trousers buttoned