Janet, used as she was to the keen, sweet air of the Hills, stood, after securing her boat, and drew in deep breaths of the fragrant morning. She had taken off her shoes and stockings, for the dew lay heavy upon the ground; and these, wrapped in a fish net, were flung across her shoulder. There was a good half mile to tread before the little hut could be reached bodily, but the whistle's call, going on before, would open the gates of Paradise if Thornly were there! The girl did not put her doubt to the test just yet. There was bliss in dallying with the joy, the bliss of youth, innocence, and unalloyed faith. Thornly might have stayed, as he generally did, at his own boarding house or at Bluff Head. Janet had learned of his intimacy there, although she had never imagined Mr. Devant's ingenuity in trying to keep them, at first, apart. If Thornly were away from the shanty, Janet knew the hiding place for the key; she could enter at will and the secrets of the treasure house were not hidden from her. "Lock the door after you, whether you are in or out," was Thornly's command. "No one must know, until the very last!" And the girl would have cheerfully defended the place with her life. Over sandy hillocks she went gleefully. The artist in her was throbbing wildly, she had a new inspiration for Thornly's brush! She led his fancy in riotous joy. Where his genius grew slack, hers urged him to renewed effort. The morning came up ruddily from the sea; it came with a south-wind playfulness, which tossed the girl's glistening hair with free touch and kissed the glowing face into richer beauty. Presently the little, secluded hut came into view; the very next hollow held it! Janet stood upon the last hill, drew out her whistle and with smiling lips, that with difficulty formed themselves to the task, sent forth her call. The musical note penetrated the stillness. A bird rose affrightedly from a near-by bush; but it, and the waiting girl, seemed to have the Hills to themselves. "So much the better!" murmured Janet, sparkling with excitement. "It will be all the more surprising." She ran rapidly forward, secured the key and opened the door. Then she obediently locked it again and stood within the room gazing tenderly at every beloved object. It was just as Thornly had left it. He had waited all day for the girl; he had wanted her to pose in the open, but she had failed him and he had evidently devoted himself to the picture he was painting, as he had told her, for his own private use. "My Pimpernel," he called it, and rough as the work was at that stage, it was full of beauty and promise. It was Janet, little more than sketched, to be sure, but a startling likeness; and the wreath of pimpernel flowers, on the glorious sun-touched hair, had evidently been the artist's last work.