headland, from which they seem to have broken loose and fled to take up a position of their own out in the midst of the sea. Comfortably ensconced in her snug position, for half an hour the girl is very busy. The outline of her sketch is drawn, and she is ruminating on the laws of perspective previous to the first wash of colour, when lo! another factor appears on the scene—another living thing within the silent and secluded cove. It is a dog.
Careering to and fro over the firm level sands, his snowy chest and ruff gleaming in the sun, and his silky brush streaming out like a flag, he keeps looking upward at the cliffs, uttering the while short joyous barks, as if to say to someone not yet in sight, “Aha—here I am—down first on this splendid beach. So come down after me as quickly as you can, for—it is fun?”
“Oh, what a love of a dog!” cries Olive, dropping her work to watch him. “Here—come here, you beauty—come and talk to me, and let’s have a look at you!”
The beautiful creature stops suddenly in the midst of his gambols, startled at the sound of a human voice where he thought himself quite alone. Then, wagging his bushy tail, he trots up to where she is sitting.
“You love! You perfect picture!” cries the girl ecstatically, throwing her arms round his snowy ruff and gazing into his soft, laughing brown eyes. “Where do you come from, and who do you belong to?” She kisses him in the middle of the forehead, and lays her cheek against his velvety ear. The dog presses affectionately against her, trying to lick her face with his hot panting tongue.
A low, shrill whistle. The unappreciative animal tears himself from her and stands for a moment gazing inquiringly around. But as he rushes from her there is a metallic sound, and lo! the little tin vessel containing her painting water rolls off the rock, upset by a stroke of his bushy tail, and the contents are swallowed, in a trice, by the thirsty sand.
Olive gives a little cry of dismay as she sees her morning’s work brought to a standstill. There is no fresh water anywhere about. She is gazing ruefully on the empty vessel, when a shadow falls between her and the sun. Looking up with a start, her glance meets that of another—not for the first time. Before her stands the stranger who gazed at her so attentively in the parish church on Sunday.
“I’m afraid my rascally dog has done serious damage. I don’t know how to apologise sufficiently on his behalf. Pray forgive him—and me—if you can. Is that absolutely your last drop?”
“I’m afraid it is. In fact—it is,” replies Olive, and her rueful smile changes to a brighter flash as she looks up at him. “But it was not altogether his fault—nor yours. I called him.”
“Oh! He is such a clumsy fellow sometimes, and yet he ought to have learnt manners by now. Here—Roy! Come here, you villain, and see what you’ve done. Now—what have you to say for yourself, sir!”
The dog walks slowly up with a downcast air and a drooping tail, though the latter is softly agitating in deprecatory wags. He looks very penitent beneath his master’s stern tones, but there is no trace of cowering.
“Please don’t be angry with him,” says Olive. “It really was all my fault for calling him. But, then, he is such a beauty.”
“There, Roy. Do you hear that—you bad dog? Come here and apologise. It isn’t often you fall in with those who return good for evil. Here—give a paw—no, not that one—the other.”
Sitting down in front of Olive, the dog lifts his right paw and gravely places it in her little hand.
“Now the other!” cries his master—and he repeats the performance with the left, looking up into her face with such soft, pleading eyes.
“There,” says Roy’s master. “You don’t deserve to be treated so generously, you bad dog. And now”—turning to Olive—“will you let me try and remedy the mischief? There must be fresh water somewhere about the cliffs.”
“Oh, I couldn’t think of troubling you to that extent. Besides I am not bound to draw this morning. I have a book here, and would just as soon read instead.”
But this does not meet the stranger’s views at all. He intends to talk to this girl, now that a fortunate chance has put it in his power to do so. He can do so while she is drawing—hardly if she reads. So he answers, but without eagerness:
“It will be no trouble at all. And I think you ought to draw this morning, because it is just one of those days which are built for that purpose. You can read at home, but you can’t reproduce this perfect bit of coast anywhere but here. So I’ll start off upon my errand of reparation before you are angry with me for presuming to lecture you,” and picking up the little canister away he goes.
Olive laughs softly to herself as she looks after him. He is so cool and self-possessed, and then his voice, too, is a very pleasing one. Who can he be? She hopes he will return soon with or without the water, and not be in a very great hurry to continue his walk. Then she is the least bit in the world frightened. What would Margaret, for instance, say if she could see her sitting in this out-of-the-way corner of the seashore, talking to a man who is a perfect stranger? And how the tongues of Wandsborough would clack—a phase of exercise, by the way, to which those unruly members were by no means unaccustomed. Anyhow she can see at a glance that the man is thoroughbred. If he is making any stay in Wandsborough, as she is inclined to think is the case, she is sure to meet him sooner or later, so why not forestall the acquaintance? If he is not, why then in all probability she will never see him again, and in either case there is no harm done. She is thus musing, when the object of her reflections appears at her side, as suddenly as he did before.
“I have been successful,” he says, setting down the canister very carefully. “But I am afraid you were waxing impatient.”
“Not at all. I think you have been very quick, and I did hope you would be able to find me some water, for I feel in the humour for daubing just now.”
“Good. And now allow me to arrange the necessary articles,” and without waiting for an answer he opens her colour-box and sets her palettes and brushes in order.
“An artist,” thinks the girl. “Of course that’s what he is,” and on the strength of this inspiration she ploughs away nervously with her brush, though shyness as a rule is not one of those sins which can fairly be laid to Olive Ingelow’s charge.
“That won’t do,” presently remarks the stranger, who is leaning lazily against the rock watching her work. “Excuse me—but you must just round off this outline a little more—it is too hard and steely—so,” as acting obediently on his directions the drawing begins to assume life-like shape.
“I suppose you paint a great deal?” ventures Olive deferentially. Who knows what R.A. of renown may be criticising her crude attempts!
“No, I don’t.”
“But you used to,” she persists.
“Never wielded a brush in my life.”
“But you seem to know all about it. How in the world could you tell me to make those alterations if you can’t paint yourself?” she asks quickly, her incredulity giving way to a flash of not unnatural resentment.
“Pardon me. I didn’t say I couldn’t. What I said was that I never had.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No,
