To the befogged Londoner there is perhaps no greater treat than to escape for forty-eight hours to the seaside even in the depths of winter, and whilst spinning along by the London, Brighton, and South Coast express, there is a pleasurable sense of excitement in the feeling that you are going to breathe the fresh sea air of Eastbourne untainted by smuts and smoke. "The Empress of watering-places," as a well-known journalist has named it, is now seen in its best aspect. It presents quite a different phase in August and September, when the residents, almost to a man, desert the town, having previously with great prudence let their houses at a high figure, and the place is given over to the holiday-makers, nigger minstrels, braying bands, and itinerant beach preachers. Now its genial, pleasant society is in full swing, and merry golf parties are the order of the day. Few places have increased with more rapid growth during the last fifteen or twenty years, or become more popular as a residence than Eastbourne, partly owing to the excellent train service, partly to the well-organised supervision over every detail in the whole town, and again probably more to the bright, healthy atmosphere, which registers three hundred days of sunshine as against sixty-nine in London.

In one of the prettiest roads in this pleasant seaside town stands—a little way back from the red-and-black tiled pavement—a large brown creeper-covered house with red tiled roof built in the Gothic style of architecture. Though it has only been constructed during late years, the gables and points give it an old-fashioned and picturesque look, but beauty and variety of style are studied at Eastbourne, and each house is apparently designed with a view to artistic effect. College Road is bordered on either side by Sussex elms. The approach is by gates right and left which open into a garden filled with shrubs. On seeking admittance you are taken up to a bright, cheerful room which faces the west, and has all the outward and visible signs of being devoted to literary and artistic pursuits. As the young author, Edna Lyall, rises from the typewriter in the corner opposite the door, with kindly greeting, you are at once struck with her extremely youthful appearance. She is about the medium height, pale in complexion, with dark hair rolled back from a broad forehead which betokens a strongly intellectual and logical cast of mind. She has well-defined, arched eyebrows, and very dark blue eyes, which light up softly as she speaks. Her manner is gentle and sympathetic, and her voice is sweet in tone. She wears a simply-made gown of olive-green material, relieved with embroidery of a lighter colour.

The room seems exactly what one would expect on only looking at her. It is the room of a student who prefers books to society, and every part of it bears evidence of the simplicity, refinement, and quiet comfort of her tastes. It is square and low, with a broad cottage window, commanding a lovely view over the Downs, which have somewhat of an Alpine look, the high hills in the distance, and the furthermost broad belt of trees in the grounds of Compton Place are tipped with snow, as also are those in the foreground, belonging to some private gardens. The whole scene, now flooded in sunshine, is a constant delight to Edna Lyall, who says that she "rejoices in the knowledge that it can never be built out." Over the window hangs a wrought-iron scroll-work fern basket, which looks like Italian manufacture, but is in reality made by the boys of St. John's, Bethnal Green Industry, developed by Miss Bromby. Under this is a broad, low shelf, covered with terra-cotta cloth, which is the repository of many little treasures. The floor is covered with Indian matting, strewn about with a few brightly-coloured Indian and Persian rugs; and in the centre is a comfortable couch with a guitar lying on it. The pretty American walnut-wood writing-table against the wall on the right has a raised desk and little cupboards with glass doors, which reveal many good bits of china. On the further side is a handsome revolving table filled with books, and in the corner stands an old grandfather clock of the seventeenth century. There is a neat arrangement for hiding manuscripts out of sight, a tall piece of furniture with little narrow drawers, also a piano opposite, and a variety of quaintly-shaped chairs; but the feature of the room is a large ornamental book-case on the left, filled with a hundred or so of standard volumes. On the mantelshelf, amongst odds and ends of china, stand some favourite portraits, and the author particularly calls attention to a photograph of her great friend, Mrs. Mary Davies, whom she describes as "a woman of most beautiful character." Another is of Captain Burges, R.N., who was killed at Camperdowne, a third is a platinotype head of George Macdonald, a fourth is of Frederick Denison Maurice, the theologian, the others represent some of her principal heroes, Sir Walter Scott, Algernon Sydney, John Hampden, and Mr. Gladstone. There are many good pictures on the walls, a few pretty landscapes in water-colours, a fine photograph of Sant's "Soul's Awakening," and an Irish trout stream in oils; two are especially attractive, the large and beautifully-executed photograph over the fireplace of Hoffman's "The Child Christ in the Temple," and "The Grotto of Posilipo," the grotto described by Edna Lyall in her novel, "The Knight Errant."

Ada Ellen Bayly (Edna Lyall) was born and educated at Brighton. Her father, Mr. Robert Bayly, barrister-at-law, of the Inner Temple, died when she was eleven, and three years later she lost her mother. Always a thoughtful, studious child, at the age of ten she had already written some short stories, which were read and thought promising by her parents, who, however, wisely made her understand that story-writing must stand second to her own training. From that time forward she was always preparing for her future profession. After losing both her parents the young girl made her home with a sister, who had married Canon Crowfoot, of Lincoln. It was shortly after leaving school that she wrote her first book, "Won by Waiting," a story of home life in France and England. It is a charming story, simple in sketch and style, with some clever bits of character-painting, in which, as her later books show, she excels.

There is a peculiar interest in her second novel, "Donovan." This work was written at intervals during three years. "When beginning it," says the young author, "I had very little notion of what I had undertaken. Sometimes I wrote easily; sometimes I was at a standstill." But the reason is easily explained. It was about that time that she began to experience a great mental conflict. Profoundly religious by nature, she entered deeply into the theological questions of the day, and though the struggle was deep and painful, she never rested until her mind was satisfied. "No one can regret," says Edna Lyall, "having been forced to face the problems which 'Donovan' had to face, and I am very thankful to have had that struggle. I wished to draw the picture of a perfectly isolated man and his gradual awakening. He had, of course, to begin by professing himself an atheist and a misanthrope; but very soon he begins to love a child, then a dog, then a woman. By these means he comes to realize his selfishness, and to detest it; he begins to love humanity, to pity and help his worst enemy, and finally to 'love the highest' when he sees it. Someone made me laugh the other day by saying that 'it was stated on the best authority that Edna Lyall had cried most bitterly at the thought of having written "Donovan" and "We Two," and would give anything to recall them.' I can only tell you that all that makes life worth living came to me through writing those books. So much for gossip! The struggle is one which we have each to go through. We must think it all out for ourselves," she goes on to say softly, whilst a bright, glad smile illumines her face; for light and peace have come to her, and she describes herself as having surmounted the storm, and achieved the haven of rest and happiness in her belief. "Won by Waiting" and "Donovan" had, according to the author, "fallen flat."

In 1884 she introduced "We Two" to the world. This book, which is a distinct story, is yet in a sense a continuation of the former, and was the outcome of all that she had lived through in the preceding years. It was so well reviewed in all the leading journals, and became so much talked about, that people began to ask for "Donovan" so extensively, that it took a new lease of life, and was soon as popular as or more so than its sequel. These two works were brought out by Messrs. Hurst and Blackett.

In September, 1884, Edna Lyall came to Eastbourne, and established herself with her sister, Mrs. Jameson, whose husband, the Rev. Hampden Jameson, is attached to the handsome church, St. Saviour's, standing close by, and she is herself a member of the congregation. Soon after her arrival a new book was begun; this is a historical novel, and the author gives an interesting account of the facts which suggested the work. "Shortly after I had finished 'We Two,'" she says, "I happened to visit an uncle and aunt of mine, whose charming old house in Suffolk—Badmondisfield Hall—was connected with some of the happiest days of my very happy childhood. The place had always been an ideal place for dream stories and old-world plays. I knew every nook of the quaint old hall and garden and park, and now the spell laid hold of me again, and the characters of Hugo and Randolph, with whom I had had such delightful imaginary games in old days, started into life once more. One morning, pacing to and fro beside the bowling-green between the house and the moat, the thought flashed into my mind that the time of the Rye House plot would best develop the character of my hero—a naturally yielding and submissive boy, whose will was held in bondage by the stronger will of his elder brother. Little by little the outline of the story shaped itself in my mind. Every history of England to be found in the ancient bookcases was pulled down, old papers relating to the old house and its owners looked through, old pictures studied, and the possibility of Hugo's escapade in the musician's gallery at the end of the dining-hall tested by an inch tape and elaborate calculations."

On leaving Suffolk, Edna Lyall went up to London to study the reign of Charles II in the reading-room of the British Museum. The story was published in 1885 under the title of "In the Golden Days"—"a title which," she says, "some people fancied I had meant seriously, but which, of course, referred to the first line of the 'Vicar of Bray.'" In this work are undoubtedly some of the finest characters of Edna Lyall's creation. The chapter headed "The Seventh of December" contains a most touching account of the patriot Algernon Sydney's death. Whilst still engaged on this book the author spent many weeks yachting in the Mediterranean, and during one visit to Naples and its neighbourhood used some of the experience she had gained during former visits to Italy to begin and think out the plot of "Knight-Errant." "The motive of that book," she remarks, "is, I think, so distinctly expressed that I need not say much about it. The motto I chose for the title-page shows that in its central idea—reconciliation—it is the completion of 'Donovan' and 'We Two,' though, naturally, as a story of stage life, it is quite unlike them in plot and surroundings. I dislike 'novels with a purpose' as much as any one," she adds, "but at the same time it seems to me that each book must have its particular motive."

"Knight-Errant" is a book of thrilling adventure and absorbing interest; the account of the attack on the hero, Carlo, in the Grotto of Posilipo, is so powerfully drawn that it keeps the reader in breathless suspense. Norway, too, is one of her favourite haunts, and in the land of the mountain and the fjord she is quite at home. Intensely fond of nature, she has depicted, in her latest three-volume novel (Hurst and Blackett), "A Hardy Norseman," in most realistic language, the exquisite scenery that she witnessed during some of her long, solitary carriole drives. She spent many very happy days with her friends, Presten Kielland (brother of the well-known Norwegian author, Alexander Kielland) and his charming wife and children. "He and his eldest daughter," says the young author, "are excellent English scholars, and I owe to them an introduction to Norwegian life which as a mere tourist I could never have gained."

None who read Edna Lyall's books can fail to be struck by her tender and vivid word-painting of animals (the faithful dog, "Waif," is familiar to all) and of little children, but here she can draw from the life, as there are eight little nephews and nieces downstairs whom she adores, and with whom she is a great favourite.

But the mid-day sun is high in the heavens, and your hostess proposes to take you for a stroll round the grand extension parade below the Wish Tower, and as you walk she beguiles the time with pleasant conversation on personal incidents. Referring to a little sketch published in the form of a shilling book by Messrs. Longmans in 1887, called the "Autobiography of a Slander," "Ah!" she says smiling, "that was written 'with a purpose,' and was suggested by a very disagreeable incident. On returning from one of our delightful Norwegian tours, I was greeted on every side by a persistent report that had been set afloat to the effect that I was in a lunatic asylum! We found out at this time that an impostor had been going about announcing that she was 'Edna Lyall,' and that in Ceylon, and during her voyage home, she had deceived many people. The only possible explanation of the lunatic asylum slander seems to be that this woman was in reality mad. But the episode was decidedly unpleasant, and set me thinking on the birth and growth of such monstrously untrue reports. During the autumn of 1886 I wrote the little story, taking different types of gossip for each stage in the Slander's growth and baleful power—the gossip of small dull towns, of country life, of cathedral precincts, of London clubs, and the gossip of members of my own profession in search of 'copy.'"

By this time you have reached a spot called by the inhabitants Mentone. The broad tiled walk is sheltered by the great cliff, behind which is a steep embankment prettily planted with shrubs, and traversed here and there by steep little zigzag paths running upwards to the heights, whilst before you rises the grand outline of Beachy Head. The sky is brilliantly blue as far as eye can reach all around. The sun (which you had not seen in town for six weeks) is shining brightly, casting its radiance on the calm sea, the little wavelets are gently breaking over the pebbles below, and the fresh, pure air is most exhilarating. A few invalids in bath chairs are being drawn slowly along, and all the beauty and fashion of Eastbourne are out enjoying a sun-bath. Amongst the habituÉs you recognize many well-known faces. That tall, graceful, Madonna-like woman, with her fair young daughter, surrounded by a group of friends, is Mrs. Royston-Pigott, widow of the eminent scientist. The handsome soldierly man with the benevolent face is General Buchanan, of cavalry renown, and close to him strolls his youngest daughter, radiant in the beauty of youth. Edna Lyall observes that Mr. Balfour is occasionally to be seen on the links enjoying a game of golf. Everyone seems revelling in the warmth of this January sunshine, but time presses, and you may not linger. If aught could compensate for turning away from such a scene, it is the charm of your hostess's conversation, as she walks with you and speaks of her favourite poets—Tennyson, Mrs. Browning, and Whittier, whilst she declares her favourite characters in prose fiction are "Jeanie Deans" and Thackeray's "Esmond." Asking her which are her special pets in her own books, she says laughing, "As Anthony Trollope said when asked a similar question, 'I like them all,' but perhaps Carlo the best, so far. You asked me just now, when we were interrupted, how my books succeeded. 'Won by Waiting' had a very small sale. It was favourably reviewed in several papers, and cut into mincemeat by a very clever weekly journal, so wittily, that even a youthful author could only laugh! Then it 'joined the majority.' 'Donovan,' in spite of many excellent reviews, shared the same fate; only 320 copies sold, then he, too, sank into oblivion temporarily. It was a hard time, and I could not resist weaving some of my memories of those literary struggles into my latest story—a little sketch called 'Derrick Vaughan, Novelist,' published first in Murray's Magazine, later, in one volume form, by Methuen. Since May, 1889, I have been unable to write at all, owing to my long attack of rheumatism and fever, but now that I am growing strong, I hope to set to work again"; and as you bid adieu to this gifted and interesting woman, you heartily re-echo the wish.

Sic transit gloria mundi. A couple of hours later the train has borne you swiftly from the glorious sunlight and sea into the persistent gloom and obscurity of London. The speed slackens, you glide into the station, your brief holiday is at an end.