ch make the absence of visitors something of a marvel to
the inhabitants. A wandering artist or two, locally known as
"painter-chaps," certainly visit it, but as they usually select subjects
for their canvases of which the progressive party of the town are
heartily ashamed, they are regarded as spies rather than visitors, and
are tolerated rather than welcomed. To a citizen who has for a score
of years regretted the decay of his town, the spectacle of a stranger
gloating over its ruins and perpetuating them on canvas is calculated to
excite strong doubts as to his mental capacity and his fitness to be at
large.

On a summer's evening, when the tide is out and the high ground the
other side of the river is assuming undefinable shadows, the little
town has other charms to the meditative man. Such life as there is, is
confined to the taverns and the two or three narrow little streets
which comprise the town. The tree-planted walk by the river is almost
deserted, and the last light of the dying day is reflected in the pools
and mud left by the tide.

Captain Nibletts, slowly pacing along and smoking his pipe in the
serenity of the evening, felt these things dimly. His gaze wandered
from a shadowy barge crawling along in mid-channel to the cheery red
blind of Boatman's Arms, and then to the road in search of Captain
Barber, for whom he had been enquiring since the morning. A stout lady
stricken in years sat on a seat overlooking the river, and the mariner,
with a courteous salutation, besought her assistance.

"I've been looking for him myself," said Mrs. Banks, breathlessly, "and
now my Elizabeth's nowhere to be found. She's been out since two o'clock
this afternoon."

Nibletts pointed up the road with his pipe. "I see her only ten minutes
ago with young Gibson," he said, slowly.

"Which way was they going?" demanded the old lady, rising.

"I don't know," said Nibletts. "I don't think they knew either an'
what's more, I don't think they cared."

The old lady resumed her seat, and, folding her hands in her lap, gazed
in a troubled fashion across the river, until the figure of another
woman coming along the walk brought her back to every-day affairs.

"Why, it's Mrs. Church," said Nibletts. "He's nowhere to be found," he
shouted, before she reached them.

"He?" said the widow, slowly. "Who?"

"Cap'n Barber," replied the mariner.

"Oh, indeed," she said, politely. "Good evening, Mrs. Banks."

Mrs. Banks returned