rs were somewhat shattered, all Nature looked the fresher for
its violent visitation. Arthur, who had come up early to the Quinta,
Mildred, and Miss Terry were all seated at breakfast in a room that
looked out to the sea, which, although the wind had died away, still
ran rather high. They made a pretty picture as they sat round the
English-looking breakfast-table, with the light pouring in upon them
from the open windows, Miss Terry, with her usual expression of good-
humoured solemnity, pouring out the tea, and Mildred and Arthur, who
sat exactly opposite to each other, drinking it. Never had the former
looked more lovely than she did that morning.

"My dear," said Agatha to her, "what have you done to yourself? You
look beautiful."

"Do I, dear? Then it is because I am happy."

Agatha was quite right, thought Arthur, she did look beautiful, there
was such depth and rest in her clear eyes, such a wealth of happy
triumph written on her features. She might have sat that morning as a
study of the "Venus Victrix." Her talk, too, was as bright as herself.
She laughed and shone and sparkled like the rain-drops on the bamboo
sprays that rocked in the sunshine, and whenever she addressed herself
to Arthur, which was often enough, every sentence seemed wrapped in
tender meaning. Her whole life went out towards him, a palpable thing;
she waited on his words and basked in his smile. Mildred Carr did
nothing by halves.

Arthur was the least cheerful of the three, though at times he tried
his best to join in Mildred's merriment. Any one who knew him well
could have told that he was suffering from one of his fits of
constitutional melancholy, and a physiognomist, looking at the
somewhat dreamy eyes and pensive face, would probably have added that
he neither was nor ever would be an entirely happy man.

By degrees, however, he seemed to get the better of his thoughts,
whatever they might be.

"Now, Arthur, if you are quite awake," began, or rather went on,
Mildred, "perhaps you will come to the window. I have something to
show you."

"Here I am at your service; what may it be?"

"Good. Now look; do you see that little vessel in the bay beneath
there to the right of Leeuw Rock?"

"Yes, and uncommonly pretty she is; what of her?"

"What of her? Why, she is my yacht."

"Your yacht?"

"Goodness gracious, Mildred, you don't mean to say that you've been
buying a yacht and told me nothing about it? Just think! Well, I call