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 an