It was nearly noon when Albert left the yacht. He had exchanged his bedraggled yachting-suit for a neat gray one, and with a small satchel, his sketch-book, and a box of choice Havanas for Uncle Terry, he rowed ashore. For three hours the “Gypsy” had been the cynosure of all the Cape eyes, old or young, for a handsome two-hundred-ton yacht was a novelty in their little harbor. When she steamed slowly out, with Frank and his companions, in natty white duck suits, grouped on her stern, she was a pretty sight, and as she cleared the narrow entrance, the crew fired three guns and dipped her flag in honor of Albert, and then he picked his way over the rocks to the lighthouse. Uncle Terry had not returned from hauling his lobster traps, and Aunt Lissy and Telly met him at the door. It is likely that his being one of the yachting-party impressed them a little, for they were both dressed in their best. He was invited in, and then Aunt Lissy said: “Please excuse me, fur I have dinner to git, and Telly will entertain ye.”

“And show me her pictures, I hope,” put in Albert, with his most persuasive smile.

It was an awkward position for Telly, and one that she had never before been called upon to fill. Rather shy naturally, and her sole acquaintance with the usages of society limited to the few people among whom she had been brought up, to be called upon to entertain a smartly dressed and citified young man was a decidedly new experience. Albert saw her embarrassment, and with true gallantry at once set about making her feel at ease.

“Please do not feel that you must try to entertain me, Miss Terry,” he said, “only show me your pictures and tell me about them.”

“I am almost ashamed to,” she replied timidly; “I have never taken any lessons and feel that I do not know anything about painting. Father says you are an artist yourself.”

“Oh, no, Miss Terry,” exclaimed Albert quickly, “he misunderstood me. I only sketch a little and once in a while make an effort to put a sketch that is of interest on canvas. All I can tell is when one looks life-like; for instance,”-pointing to it,-“that shipwreck scene. It is wonderfully well done. Did you paint it from a real wreck?”

Telly colored. “No, sir,” she answered, “that was all done from father’s description of a wreck that took place off the point one winter when I was a baby.” Then, as if to check further questions, she stepped to a closet, brought him a small unframed picture, and added, “There is one I have just finished.”

It was a view of a tall cliff with a low shelf of rock at its base, over which the waves were breaking. Albert recognized it at once. “Why, that is the very point,” he exclaimed, “that I was sketching yesterday when my boat drifted away. Did you paint it from a broad flat rock on the west side of the cove?”

“Oh, yes, that is the spot,” replied Telly, looking pleased. “It is shady there, and I used to row up and paint in the afternoon. It is strange you went to the same place.”

The ice was broken now, and Telly’s shyness was almost gone.

“Father told me about finding you,” she said, “and that you were turned around. You must have had a hard tramp, for it’s all of two miles from where you were to this cove, and an awful tangle all the way, he said.”

“I was decidedly turned when he came to my rescue,” Albert replied, “and the sun seemed to be setting in the east. It was very kind of your father to take care of me the way he has, and I shall never forget it.”

It is not hard for two young people of opposite sex to get acquainted when each desires to entertain the other and they have at least one well-defined taste in common. In this case when the masculine one felt a sudden admiration for his companion and brought all his resource of tact and subtle flattery to bear, they were soon on the very best of terms. Albert did not talk much, but adroitly induced Telly to do most of it. In the hour they passed together he discovered that two impulses were nearest her heart-the first and strongest her devotion to Mr. Terry, and after that a desire to paint.

“I do not ever hope to do much,” she admitted rather pathetically; “I never have taken lessons and maybe never shall. I would not think of asking father to let me go away, and all I can do is to work blindly. I often sit for hours trying to put things I see on canvas, only to fail utterly and begin all over again. I should not mind it if I could see that I made any progress, but I do not. I can’t let it alone, though, for the most happy hours I have are when I’m painting.”

“You certainly have perseverance,” responded Albert encouragingly, “and the pictures you have shown me seem very life-like. I wish I could do as well. You have done good work for one self-taught as you are, and you have no reason to be discouraged.”

Then Uncle Terry came in and announced dinner. It was rather a state affair for the Terry household, and the table bore their best dinner service, with a vase of flowers in the centre.

“I hope ye feel hungry,” said Uncle Terry, as he passed a well-filled plate to Albert, “for we live plain, and it’s good appetite as makes good vittles. I s’pose ye are used ter purty high livin’?”

“Whatever tastes good is good,” replied Albert, and turning to Aunt Lissy he added, “This fried lobster beats anything I have tasted for a long time.”

When the meal was over he handed the box of cigars he had brought to his host with the remark, “Please accept these, Mr. Terry, and when you smoke them, think of the forlorn fellow you found by the wayside.”

“I’ve got ter leave ye ter th’ tender marcies o’ the wimmin folks,” said Uncle Terry, after thanking Albert, “for I’ve got work to do, and to-night we’ll have a visit. I hope you’ll be willin’ to stay with us a day or two,” he added, “an’ to-morrow I’ll take ye out fishin’.”

“I will stay until to-morrow, thank you,” replied Albert, “and it will be a treat to me, I assure you.”

It was a new departure for him to find so cordial a welcome among total strangers, and he could not quite understand it. He was not inclined to quarrel with fate, however, especially when it had thrown him into the society of such people. It is needless to say the “tender marcies” of at least one of them were quite to his taste.

“I should like to row up to where I was left boat-less yesterday,” he said to Telly after Uncle Terry had gone, “and finish the sketch I began, and also try to find the cushions I dropped in the woods; may I ask you to go too?”

“I should be glad to if mother can spare me,” she answered.

When he rowed out of the little harbor where he had left his boat, Telly sat in the stern holding the tiller ropes, and shading her winsome face was the same broad sun-hat he had seen on the rock beside her the evening before. It was a long four-mile pull, but he was unconscious of it, and when he helped his companion out and secured the boat he said, “Now I am going to ask a favor of you, Miss Terry. I want you to stand in just the position I first saw you and let me make a sketch of you. You were leaning on a rock and resting your head on one hand.”

Telly looked puzzled.

“You did not know I saw you out on the point last evening, did you?” he added, smiling. “I stood and looked at you for five minutes and then walked away. I did not know who you were then, or that I should meet you later. If I had I would not have been so rude.”

The color came to Telly’s face at his evident admiration, but she did not say no to his proposal and stood patiently in the position he wished while he made the sketch. “There,” he exclaimed when it was finished, “I shall transfer that to canvas when I go back, and whenever I look at it I shall recall this day and-you.”

“Will you need the picture for that?” she replied with a smile. It was the first little coquettish word she had uttered, and it amused Albert. “That sounds like Alice,” he said, and added hastily, “Alice is my only sister, and I think more of her than of any other woman living.”

What these two young people, so rapidly becoming acquainted, had to say all that long summer afternoon need not be recorded. Telly sat on the boat’s cushions in a shady nook and watched Albert finish his sketch and then listened to his talk. He told her all about his home and sister, and Frank as well. In a way they exchanged a good deal of personal history of interest to each other, but to no one else, so it need not be repeated. Then they gathered flowers, like two children, and Telly insisted on decorating the boat. When it was done she wanted him to make a sketch of it for her. “Draw yourself as holding the oars,” she said, “and I will try to paint a picture from the sketch to remember you by,” she added with a smile. Then, as the sun was getting low, they started for home. The breeze had all vanished and the sea was like glass. Only the long ground swells barely lifted their boat and made the shadows of the trees along the shore wave in fantastic undulations. When they reached the Cape Telly said, “You had better go around to the cove where father keeps his boats. It’s nearer to the house, and there is a float there where you can pull your boat out.”

She waited until he had done so, and then stooped and selected a few of the flowers with which they had decked the boat. “I am going to paint them,” she said quietly, as she turned and followed Albert up to the house.