ther had come the stranger--had come Montagu
Knight. Young, handsome, and self-assured, he strolled into The Ship one
day for tea, having tramped twelve miles along the coast from
Spearmouth, on the other side of the Point. And the next day he came
again to stay.

He had been there for nearly three weeks now, and he seemed to have
every intention of remaining. He was an artist, and the sketches he made
were numerous and--like himself--full of decision. He came and went
among the fishermen's little thatched cottages, selecting here, refusing
there, exactly according to fancy.

They had been inclined to resent his presence at first--it was certainly
no charitable impulse that moved Adam to call him "the curly-topped
chap"--but now they were getting used to him. For there was no
gainsaying the fact that he had a way with him, at least so far as the
women-folk of the community were concerned.

He could keep Mrs. Peck chuckling for an hour at a time in the evening,
when the day's work was over. And Columbine--Columbine had a trill of
laughter in her voice whenever she spoke to him. He liked to hear her
play the guitar and sing soft songs in the twilight. Adam liked it too.
He was wont to say that it reminded him of a young blackbird learning to
sing. For Columbine was as yet very shy of her own talent. She kept in
the shallows, as it were, in dread of what the deep might hold.

Knight was very kind to her, but he was never extravagant in his praise.
He was quite unlike any other man of her acquaintance. His touch was
always so sure. He never sought her out, though he was invariably quite
pleased to see her. The dainty barrier of pride that fenced her round
did not exist for him. She did not need to keep him at a distance. He
could be intimate without being familiar.

And intimate he had become. There was no disputing it. From the first,
with his easy _savoir-faire_, he had waived ceremony, till at length
there was no ceremony left between them. He treated her like a lady.
What more could the most exacting demand?

And yet Adam continued to call him "the curly-topped chap," and turned
him over to his son Rufus when he requested permission to go out in his
boat.

And Rufus--Rufus turned with a gesture of disgust after the utterance of
his half-veiled threat, and spat with savage emphasis upon the sand.

Adam uttered a chuckle that was not wholly unsympathetic, and began
deftly to coil the now disentangled rope.

"Do