“No, I guess the water _wa’n’t_ clear enough to see ’em!” The rinsing-water had been emptied, and Mrs. Vaiden was industriously wiping the tub. “I’ve got all the star-fishin’ an’ the crab-ketchin’ I want, an’ I’m a-goin’ to tell that young man that he can go some’ers else for his board. He’s b’en here a month, an’ he’s just about made a fool o’ you. Pret’ soon you’ll be a-thinkin’ you’re too good for Bart Winn.” “Oh, no,” said Bart Winn’s honest voice in the doorway; “I guess Laviny won’t never be a-thinkin’ that.” “Mercy!” cried Mrs. Vaiden, starting and coloring guiltily. “That you? How you scairt me! I’m all of a-trimble.” Bart advanced to Lavinia and kissed her with much tenderness; but instead of blushing, she paled. “When ’d you come?” she asked, briefly, drawing away, while her mother, muttering something about the sour cream and the spring-house, went out discreetly. “This mornin’,” said Bart. “I’m a-goin’ to stay home now.” The girl sat down, taking a pan of potatoes on her lap. “I wonder where the case-knife is,” she said, helplessly. “I’ll get it,” said Bart, running into the pantry and returning with the knife. “I love to wait on you, Laviny,” he added, with shining eyes. “I guess I’ll get to wait on you a sight, now. I see your paw ’s I come up an’ he said as how I could board hyeer. I’ll do the shores for you—an’ glad to. An’, oh, Laviny! I ’most forgot. I spoke for a buggy ’s I come up, so’s I can take you a-ridin’ to-night.” “I guess I can’t go,” said Lavinia, holding her head down and paring potatoes as if her life depended upon getting the skins off. “You can’t? Why can’t you?” “I—why, I’m goin’ a salmon-spearin’ up at Squalicum Creek, I guess. Salmon’s a-runnin’ like everything now. ’Most half the town goes there soon ’s it gets dark.” “That a fact?” said Bart, shifting from one foot to the other and looking interested. “I want to know! Well”—his face brightened—“I’ll go down an’ tell ’em I’ll take the rig to-morro’ night, an’ I’ll go a-spearin’ with you. Right down in front o’ Eldridge’s?” “Yes.” A pulse began thumping violently in the girl’s throat. Her eyelids got so heavy she could not lift them. “I guess—that is, I—why, you see, Bart, I got comp’ny.” “Well, I guess the girls won’t object to my goin’ along o’ you.” “It ain’t girls,” said Lavinia, desperately. “It’s—a—it’s Mr. Diller; the gentleman that boards here.” “Oh,” said Bart, slowly. Then there was a most trying silence, during which the ticking of the clock and the beating of her own heart were the only sounds Lavinia heard. At last she said, feebly: “You see he writes for a New York newspaper—one o’ the big ones. He’s a-writin’ up the whole Puget Sound country. An’ he don’t know just what he’d ort to see, nor just how to see it, unless somebody shows him about—an’ I’ve b’en a-showin’ him.”