s you feel that you can see a hundred miles," as Janet put it.
There was another, a winding white road running up a wind-swept valley
with the trees bowing to a storm and a spatter of rain slanting across
the hill, there was a portrait of a fierce old lady and another of a
man with lace ruffles and a satin coat. There was a long, cool wave,
breaking upon a beach where the whiteness of the sun-splashed sand was
so vivid as almost to hurt her eyes.

She set them out in a row against the eaves and sat back on her heels
to look her fill. Such pictures, to be gathered here in the dusty
attic, to crack and warp and fade into ruin! She could not understand
how they could have come there, nor did she spend much thought in
wondering, so lost was she in that pure delight that the sight of
truly beautiful things can bring. An old print with a cracked glass
and broken frame caught her attention almost the last of all. It
showed a ship, a tall frigate, under full sail, and had all the quaint
primness of the pictures of a hundred years ago. The group of people
supposed to be standing on the wharf was composed of gentlemen in very
tight trousers and ladies with very sloping shoulders and absurd, tiny
parasols. The vessel floated on impossible scalloped billows, but no
old-fashioned stiffness could disguise the free beauty of the ship's
lines and the grace of her curving sails. Her name was inscribed in
faded gold letters below--"The _Huntress_, 1813." The Beeman's tale
was still so vivid in her mind that there was no need for her to
wonder where she had heard that name before.

"Why, it was a real story," she exclaimed, "and I thought he was only
making it up!"

As she moved the print to a better light, a smaller picture, almost
lost among the rest, fell down between two frames and rolled across
the floor. She took it up and saw that it was a miniature, painted on
ivory and framed in gold, the portrait of a young girl with
high-piled brown hair and eager, smiling eyes.

"It looks like Polly," Janet thought, "but it could not really be a
picture of her."

She turned it over and found the single name engraved on the back,
"Cicely, aet. 17."

"Martin," she cried in the sudden inspiration of discovery, "Martin,
come here quickly and tell me what is your whole name."

The little boy came out from a far corner where he had been examining
dusty treasures on his own account and stood for a minute just where a
beam of slanting sunligh