outh of the little harbor, one side
thrust boldly out cliffwise into the ocean, the other sliding by soft
degrees to the margin of the salt-water lagoon. On the crest of the
cliff, and commanding a fine view of both sea and shore, rose the
White-House, originally owned and built by a sea-captain who could not
live without the sea, even when he had ceased to live on it. For years
the Captain took his daily walk on the little platform railed in from
the slanting roof, and scanned the horizon with his glass, taking note
of every sail, till at length he walked and gazed no more, and his
grave was made in the little hollow that dips behind the house. The
places which had known him knew him no more, and the house was let to
strangers.

The Point, however, retained his name; and the white railing around
the Captain's walk gleamed in the sunlight from the crest of the cliff
as bright as when he leaned upon it to sweep the face of the waters
with his glass.

Flint did the Captain the honor to bestow a passing thought on him
this morning, to be vaguely sorry for him, and to reflect that it was
really a fine thing to be above ground when the sun was shining like
this. To be sure, life had its vexations; but they were so brief, and
there was so much time in which to be dead!

Flint had not gone many paces along the beach before he saw Jimmy
Anstice digging clams out on the oozy flats left bare by the receding
tides, his knickerbockers rolled well up on his legs, and a great pail
set on the mud beside him.

The boy's hat was pushed far back on his head, and the sun fell full
on his face. Even at this distance, the resemblance to his sister was
so marked as to be almost comical. The eyes were the same. The nose,
with its unmistakable upward turn, a burlesque on the short, straight
one which lent piquancy to Winifred's face. The soft, subtle curve of
her cheek developed in Jimmy to a hardened rotundity inevitably
suggesting the desire to pinch it, which one feels toward the tomato
pin-cushions on exhibition at church fairs.

Nevertheless, despite freckles bestowed by nature, and grime
artificially acquired, Jimmy Anstice was a well-looking lad, and added
a distinct note of human interest to the barren flats, as he stood,
spade in hand, staring at Flint.

"Come out here!" he called.

"No, thank you," answered Flint. "Not with my boots on. What are you
about? Clamming, I suppose."

"Oh, no--fishing!" answered Jimmy, with fine