The old dame carefully put on the child’s hat and sack, and then threw a shawl over her own head, and led the little one down to the water’s edge, where David stood in the boat, waiting. The child threw her arms around the old woman’s neck, and kissed her heartily, many times, thanking her warmly for the “happy, happy day” she had had. The dame responded cordially. David then handed the little girl into the boat, unmoored, and rowed rapidly for the promontory landing, which they reached in a few minutes. The sun was just setting. “Oh, David Lindsay, I have had such a splendid time! Oh! I am so glad I found you!” exclaimed little Glo’, as he helped her out of the boat. “Oh, so am I! Ever so glad! And I think we ought to thank the Lord!” he added, solemnly. “Oh! I will, when I say my prayers to-night. Are you going to study your books this evening, David Lindsay?” “Yes, indeed. What are you going to do?” “Oh, I—I think I will look out some more books for you, and then I will hunt out some pretty bright pieces of calico from the scrap-bag, to learn to make patchwork quilts, and have them ready against the next time I go to see your grandmother.” “When will you come again? To-morrow?” anxiously inquired the boy, as he leaned on his oar. “Oh, no, not to-morrow; not to see your grandmother, to put her to so much trouble, you know; but I will come down here to the landing to see you, David Lindsay.” “Oh, yes, please do.” “Well, good-bye, David Lindsay.” “Good-bye.” “God bless you, David Lindsay!” “And you, too.” “I won’t forget to thank Him when I say my prayers to-night.” “No more will I.” “Well, good-bye again, David Lindsay.” “Good-bye.” He did not want to call her Miss de la Vera, much less Miss Gloria; he could not call her little Glo’. He felt, without in the least understanding his feelings, that the first style would be too cold and stiff, and the last perhaps too familiar, so he called her “you,” putting all respect in his low and modulated tone. There was much of nature’s gentleman in this poor little lad in the ragged straw hat. He waited, hat in hand, until she had turned and tripped lightly over the broken sea-wall and passed out of sight. Then he covered his head, sat down in his boat, took the oar and reluctantly shoved off from the shore, while she ran home, singing and dancing as she went. She ran into the house and went directly to seek Sophia. “Have they been worried about me, ’Phia?” she inquired. “No, honey; dey’s been too much took up wid ’spoundin’ an’ ’splainin’ ’bout yes’day’s fuss to fink ’bout you. Leastways, mist’ess was; dough marster did ’quire arter you when dey sat down to dinner an’ you wa’n’t dere. Says he: “‘Whey’s de chile?’ “Says she: