When the tide is up and the sun shining, Seabridge has attractions which make the absence of visitors something of a marvel to the inhabitants. A wandering artist or two, locally known as “painter-chaps,” certainly visit it, but as they usually select subjects for their canvases of which the progressive party of the town are heartily ashamed, they are regarded as spies rather than visitors, and are tolerated rather than welcomed. To a citizen who has for a score of years regretted the decay of his town, the spectacle of a stranger gloating over its ruins and perpetuating them on canvas is calculated to excite strong doubts as to his mental capacity and his fitness to be at large. On a summer’s evening, when the tide is out and the high ground the other side of the river is assuming undefinable shadows, the little town has other charms to the meditative man. Such life as there is, is confined to the taverns and the two or three narrow little streets which comprise the town. The tree-planted walk by the river is almost deserted, and the last light of the dying day is reflected in the pools and mud left by the tide. Captain Nibletts, slowly pacing along and smoking his pipe in the serenity of the evening, felt these things dimly. His gaze wandered from a shadowy barge crawling along in mid-channel to the cheery red blind of Boatman’s Arms, and then to the road in search of Captain Barber, for whom he had been enquiring since the morning. A stout lady stricken in years sat on a seat overlooking the river, and the mariner, with a courteous salutation, besought her assistance. “I’ve been looking for him myself,” said Mrs. Banks, breathlessly, “and now my Elizabeth’s nowhere to be found. She’s been out since two o’clock this afternoon.” Nibletts pointed up the road with his pipe. “I see her only ten minutes ago with young Gibson,” he said, slowly. “Which way was they going?” demanded the old lady, rising. “I don’t know,” said Nibletts. “I don’t think they knew either an’ what’s more, I don’t think they cared.” The old lady resumed her seat, and, folding her hands in her lap, gazed in a troubled fashion across the river, until the figure of another woman coming along the walk brought her back to every-day affairs. “Why, it’s Mrs. Church,” said Nibletts. “He’s nowhere to be found,” he shouted, before she reached them. “He?” said the widow, slowly. “Who?” “Cap’n Barber,” replied the mariner. “Oh, indeed,” she said, politely. “Good evening, Mrs. Banks.” Mrs. Banks returned the courtesy. “It looks as though Cap’n Barber has run away,” she said, with attempted jocularity. Mrs. Church smiled a superior smile. “He is not far off,” she said, quietly. “Resting, I suppose,” said Mrs. Banks, with intent. Mrs. Church took higher ground. “Of course this sad affair has upset him terribly,” she said, gravely. “His is a faithful nature, and he can’t forget. How is Miss Banks bearing up?”