s active and busy in the world as Neckart, would
have wasted so much thought on a chance young girl sitting on a log. But
women being forbidden fruit to him, he was morbidly curious about them
all. Old Chrysostom, barred into his cave by an impassable line, was much
more inquisitive about the princess asleep outside than if he had been a
hearty young fellow free to go out and kiss and make love to her.

Miss Swendon came up presently, the dog marching alongside. "Father," she
said, "you are spending the whole day with Mr. Neckart. You have not told
Sutphen the town news. I am afraid the old man will be hurt."

"That's a fact: I'll go over directly. You will like to be alone a while,
Neckart, at any rate.--Come, Jane."

Neckart rose: "You are not going over to those rough fellows, Miss
Swendon? There are no women there."

Jane laughed. "_I_ am a woman," with an arch little nod. "One queen-bee
makes the whole hive proper, conventionally."

"Of course. But really those men are vulgar and fishy to such a
degree--Nothing but a missionary spirit can take you to them?"

"On the contrary," gravely, "they are the best-bred men I know. Their talk
is fuller of adventure and sincerity than any book I ever read."

"Still, stay with me. I have feelings to consider as well as Sutphen."

"Very well.--I will come over presently, father. Tell the little boys to
make a fire clear enough to broil the fish for dinner." She sat down and
called Bruno to her feet. There was a grave, childish simplicity in her
motions which was a new study to Neckart.

"I believe," watching her keenly, "you would rather have gone. Sutphen
would have been a better companion than I?"

"I don't know as yet. I have never tried you. I do know Ichabod."

"Or perhaps the truer courtesy would be to leave you alone with the sea?
You were making a picture of it in your mind a while ago?"

"No," knitting her brows. "I could not do that. I know people who look at
the sea or mountains or sky as so much canvas and gamboge and burnt umber
and bits of effect. They are very tiresome."

"You have imagination rather than fancy, then? You hear the secret words
in that everlasting moan yonder? You know what the mountains say to you at
nightfall?" Neckart vaguely remembered the jargon of sentimental novels,
the heroines of which always keep their heads on Nature's breast. He did
not mean to chaff any woman, but he would gladly have proved this one
sentimental and weak t