s pushed out several iron piers into the sea, and erected,
of course, a skating rink on the end of one of them. But the sea
itself, untamed, restless, shining, dancing, raging, rolls in from the
southward, tossing the white sails on its vast expanse, green, blue,
leaden, white-capped, many-colored, never two minutes the same, sounding
with its eternal voice I knew not what rebuke to man.

When Mr. King wrote his and his friend's name in the book at the Mansion
House, he had the curiosity to turn over the leaves, and it was not with
much surprise that he read there the names of A. J. Benson, wife, and
daughter, Cyrusville, Ohio.

"Oh, I see!" said the artist; "you came down here to see Mr. Benson!"

That gentleman was presently discovered tilted back in a chair on
the piazza, gazing vacantly into the vacant street with that air of
endurance that fathers of families put on at such resorts. But he
brightened up when Mr. King made himself known.

"I'm right glad to see you, sir. And my wife and daughter will be. I
was saying to my wife yesterday that I couldn't stand this sort of thing
much longer."

"You don't find it lively?"

"Well, the livelier it is the less I shall like it, I reckon. The town
is well enough. It's one of the smartest places on the coast. I should
like to have owned the ground and sold out and retired. This sand is all
gold. They say they sell the lots by the bushel and count every sand.
You can see what it is, boards and paint and sand. Fine houses, too;
miles of them."

"And what do you do?"

"Oh, they say there's plenty to do. You can ride around in the sand; you
can wade in it if you want to, and go down to the beach and walk up and
down the plank walk--walk up and down--walk up and down. They like it.
You can't bathe yet without getting pneumonia. They have gone there now.
Irene goes because she says she can't stand the gayety of the parlor."

From the parlor came the sound of music. A young girl who had the air
of not being afraid of a public parlor was drumming out waltzes on the
piano, more for the entertainment of herself than of the half-dozen
ladies who yawned over their worsted-work. As she brought her piece to
an end with a bang, a pretty, sentimental miss with a novel in her hand,
who may not have seen Mr. King looking in at the door, ran over to the
player and gave her a hug. "That's beautiful! that's perfectly lovely,
Mamie!"--"This," said the player, taking up another sheet, "