“Lor’, miss! ’Tain’t nothin’ to him; he’s only the sailing master. The _Dido’s_ owned by a rich man, who is off on his wedding trip, and sent the yacht home from Nassau with this young fellow.” Only the sailing master! My lips kept whispering it, and my brain would not take it in. It meant that I--Katherine Russell, the fastidious daughter of tradition, of all exclusiveness--had fallen in love with a sailing master, and, what was far worse, I had fallen in love unsolicited. What would my mother say--and uncle Barton? Uncle Barton, who was always rolling that magic word, “gentleman,” under his tongue, and despising others. Of course they need never know, but my secret hurt me. Desperate diseases require desperate remedies, and as I walked along the lanes in a passion of rage at my own weakness, I determined to see this man and let him destroy his own image in my heart. I was in love with a creature of my own creation--I knew neither his mind nor his speech--perhaps his first words would dispel the illusion and set me free. Across the field was the little house that harbored him, open doored and cheerful in the sunshine, and I boldly turned my face thither. As I approached, the farmer’s wife came out of her henhouse with her apron full of fresh eggs, and I affected to wish to buy some for my housekeeping, and strolled with her to the porch. “I’ll put them in a basket for you, Miss Russell,” she said, pausing. “I am sorry I cannot ask you inside to wait, but my parlor is let to the captain of that wrecked vessel, and he’s still too sick to leave his bed.” As she spoke a towering figure filled the doorway and a deep voice said: “Oh, no, he isn’t, Mrs. Price, for here he is, and hungry enough to beg for one of those eggs for a second breakfast.” He was dressed in a blue flannel shirt, such as the village shops furnished, a pair of dark trousers, also village made, and a coat which must have been lent to him by the farmer: and he wore them with an air that was regal. Now that I was face to face with my folly, I recovered my senses, and, while I felt puzzled by the contradictions he presented, I was brave enough to take advantage of opportunity. “You must allow me to congratulate you upon your rescue and that of your crew, Mr. Holford,” I said. “You had a narrow escape.” “The congratulations are due to the gallantry of your coast guards,” he answered, with enthusiasm. “I am sorry about the yacht,” I continued; “she is still holding together, for one mast thrusts itself out of the water at low tide and looks so pathetic.” “A monument to bad seamanship,” he said, impatiently. “It is the last boat I shall ever attempt to sail.” “But isn’t sailing your occupation?” I asked, aghast at his easy way of laying down his livelihood. “There must be plenty of gentlemen needing sailing masters, even if this one especial yacht has gone to the bottom.” He stared at me blankly, and then a quizzical look came into his eyes, as he answered: