Lucy Dunlap, though of the average height of women, seemed taller, so round, supple and elastic were the proportions of her perfect figure. The charm of intellectual power gave added beauty to a face whose features would have caused an artist to realize that the ideal model did not exist alone in the land of dreams. In the spacious drawing-room of Dunlap’s mansion were gathered those who had enjoyed the sumptuous dinner served that evening in honor of their seafaring kinsman. Mr. John Dunlap was relating his experiences in Port au Prince to his old friend, Mrs. Church, while his brother, with that old-fashioned courtliness that became him so well, was playing the cavalier to Miss Winthrop, one of his granddaughter’s pretty friends. Walter Burton was bending over Miss Stanhope, a talented young musician, who, seated before the piano, was scanning a new piece of music. There seemed a mutual understanding between all of those present that Lucy should monopolize her cousin’s attention on this the first occasion that she had seen him for two years, and probably the last for a like period of time. In a far corner of the great room Jack and Lucy were seated when she asked the question mentioned, to which Jack finally made awkward answer by saying: “Oh! well, Lucy, I am not of much account at social functions. I should only be in some one’s way. I fancy my proper place is the quarter-deck of a ship at sea.” “Don’t be absurd, Jack! You know much better than that,” said his cousin, glancing at the manly, frank face beside her, the handsome, curly blonde head carried high and firm, and the grand chest and shoulders of the man, made more noticeable by the close fitting dress coat that he wore. “Why, half the women of our set in Boston will be in love with you if you remain for my wedding. Please do, Jack. I will find you the prettiest sweetheart that your sailor-heart ever pictured.” “I am awfully sorry, little cousin, to disappoint you, as you seem to have expected me to be present at your wedding,” said Jack manfully, attempting to appear cheerful. “And as for the sweetheart part of your suggestion, it may be ungallant to say so, but I don’t believe there is any place in my log for that kind of an entry.” “How odd it is, Jack, that you have never been in love; why, any woman could love you, you big-hearted handsome sailor.” Lucy’s admiring glances rested upon the face of her cousin as innocently as when a little maid she had kissed him and said that she loved him. “Yes, it is rather odd for a man never to love some woman, but I can’t say that I agree that any woman could or would love me,” answered Jack dryly, as he smiled at the earnest face turned toward him. Miss Stanhope played a magnificent symphony as only that clever artist could; Walter Burton’s clear tenor voice rang out in an incomparable solo from the latest opera, but Lucy and Jack, oblivious to all else, in low and confidential tones conversed in the far corner of the room.