She begins to investigate the contents of her basket. Nothing is left behind? No--colour-box, block, palettes, brushes--all are there; not even the water-bottle forgotten. She will just throw off the upper end of the little bay, and bring in those two great turret-like rocks--whose bases are covered except at the very lowest of tides--and the rough, jagged headland, from which they seem to have broken loose and fled to take up a position of their own out in the midst of the sea. Comfortably ensconced in her snug position, for half an hour the girl is very busy. The outline of her sketch is drawn, and she is ruminating on the laws of perspective previous to the first wash of colour, when lo! another factor appears on the scene--another living thing within the silent and secluded cove. It is a dog. Careering to and fro over the firm level sands, his snowy chest and ruff gleaming in the sun, and his silky brush streaming out like a flag, he keeps looking upward at the cliffs, uttering the while short joyous barks, as if to say to someone not yet in sight, "Aha--here I am--down first on this splendid beach. So come down after me as quickly as you can, for--it _is_ fun?" "Oh, what a love of a dog!" cries Olive, dropping her work to watch him. "Here--come here, you beauty--come and talk to me, and let's have a look at you!" The beautiful creature stops suddenly in the midst of his gambols, startled at the sound of a human voice where he thought himself quite alone. Then, wagging his bushy tail, he trots up to where she is sitting. "You love! You perfect picture!" cries the girl ecstatically, throwing her arms round his snowy ruff and gazing into his soft, laughing brown eyes. "Where do you come from, and who do you belong to?" She kisses him in the middle of the forehead, and lays her cheek against his velvety ear. The dog presses affectionately against her, trying to lick her face with his hot panting tongue. A low, shrill whistle. The unappreciative animal tears himself from her and stands for a moment gazing inquiringly around. But as he rushes from her there is a metallic sound, and lo! the little tin vessel containing her painting water rolls off the rock, upset by a stroke of his bushy tail, and the contents are swallowed, in a trice, by the thirsty sand. Olive gives a little cry of dismay as she sees her morning's work brought to a standstill. There is no fresh water anywhere about. She is gazing ruefully on the empty vessel, when a shadow falls between her and the sun. Looking up with a start, her glance meets that of another--not for the first time. Before her stands the stranger who gazed at her so attentively in the parish church on Sunday. "I'm afraid my rascally dog has done serious damage. I don't know how to apologise sufficiently on his behalf. Pray forgive him--and me--if you can. Is that absolutely your last drop?"