“Few gentlemen care to employ an unsuccessful sailing master; indeed, I am not sure but that my license will be revoked. No, no, the ocean has thrown me upon the land, and I mean to take the hint.” “It seems hard to begin life all over again,” I said, sympathetically. He impressed me as a man gently nurtured, who had adopted a profession for which he was not originally intended. “You mustn’t waste too much compassion on me,” he replied. “I have no one dependent upon me, and, besides, I am not at the end of my resources. I possess a few acres of farm land. There is nothing to prevent my turning myself into a son of the soil.” At this juncture Mrs. Price came back with the eggs, and I turned to go, feeling the conversation was becoming almost too personal. “Good-by,” I said. “I am glad you are better. Is there anything I can do for you?” He came painfully after me down the path; the muscles of his back had been hurt and he moved stiffly. “Two things if you will,” he said, with rather a saucy smile: “tell me where I have seen you before, and lend me some books.” This was getting on a little too fast. If he had been my social equal, if we had possessed friends in common, he could not have been more assured in his manner. “I have never spoken to you before in my life,” I said, coldly. “I will send you some books, Mr. Holford.” Again the merriment flashed into his eyes, and he stood in my path. “You would prefer me with manners cold as my hands were the other day when you chafed them for me on the beach. You see, I remember--and I prefer you with a red Tam o’ Shanter on your curly locks. Oh, don’t be vexed!” he added, with entreaty in his voice. “I do not mean to be impertinent, but I have been haunted by a vision, and the impression is intensified by reality.” He drew aside to let me pass, and I hurried down the path, more in love with this impudent, outrageous stranger than before. I sent Murphy with the books; a choice collection of direct narratives--Conan Doyle, Clark Russell stories, that I considered suited to a taste more practical than scholarly--but as an afterthought I added a novel I had just read, a psychological problem as to one’s right to dispose of life in the manner to give the richest fulfillment to present desires at the expense of future wreck or death. I was thoroughly disingenuous with myself, for my only object in sending that book was to mark its effect, to welcome its discussion, and yet I pretended I never wished to see Mr. Holford again. * * * * * Perhaps it was not altogether my fault that we met every day, and sometimes twice a day, in that week allotted to his recovery. If I strolled up the beach when my house duties were over, I was sure to be waylaid by Mr. Holford on my return, and he leaned so heavily on his cane, and entreated me so earnestly to sit down for a moment and rest, that common humanity made me accede to his request.