He was a good-looking, sun-browned little fellow; and as he sat there in his big fisher-boots thrust down nearly to the ankle, and a scarlet worsted cap upon his black, crisp curls, his canvas petticoat and blue shirt made him a study of which a modern artist would have been glad; but I the early days of King George the First gentlemen of the palette and brush did not set up white umbrellas in sheltered coves and turn the inhabitants into models, so Abel Dell had not been transferred to canvas, and went on carving his hardwood needle without looking up at the man he called Bart. There was not much lost, for Bartholomew Wrigley, at the age of thirty-- wrecker, smuggler, fisherman, sea-dog, anything by turn--was about as ugly an athletic specimen of humanity as ever stepped. Nature and his ancestors had been very unkind to him in the way of features, and accidents by flood and fight had marred what required no disfigurement, a fall of a spar having knocked his nose sidewise and broken the bridge, while a chop from a sword in a smuggling affray had given him a divided upper lip. In addition he always wore the appearance of being ashamed of his height, and went about with a slouch that was by no means an attraction to the fisher-girls of the place. "Ay! If the old man had been alive--" "'Stead o' drowned off Plymouth Hoo," growled Bart. "In the big storm," continued Abel, "Polly would have had to swab them eyes of hern." "Ay! And if the old man had been alive, that snapper dandy captain, with his boots and sword, would have had to sheer off, Abel, lad." "'Stead o' coming jerry-sneaking about her when we was at sea, eh, Bart?" "Them's true words," growled the big, ugly fellow. Then, after a pause-- "I hate to see a woman cry." "So do I, mate. Makes the place dull." There was a pause, during which Abel carved away diligently, and Bart watched him intently, with his hands deep in his pockets. "It's all off, ar'n't it, mate?" said Bart at last. "Ay, it's all off," said Abel; and there was another pause. "Think there'd be any chance for a man now?" Abel looked up at his visitor, who took off the rough, flat, fur cap he wore, as if to show himself to better advantage; and after breathing on one rough, gnarled hand, he drew it down over his hair, smoothing it across his brow; but the result was not happy, and he seemed to feel it as the wood-carver shook his head and went on with his work. "S'pose not," said the looker-on with a sigh. "You see, I'm such a hugly one, Abel, lad." "You are, Bart. There's no denying of it, mate; you are." "Ay! A reg'lar right-down hugly one. But I thought as p'r'aps now as her heart were soft and sore, she might feel a little torst a man whose heart also was very soft and sore." "Try her, then, mate. I'll go and tell her you're here." "Nay, nay, don't do that, man," whispered the big fellow, hoarsely. "I durstent ask her again. It'll have to come from her this time."