Finally, however, after two hours of fruitless search, Mr. Putchett’s eyes were rewarded by the sight of little Alice approaching the beach with a bathing-party. He at first hurried forward to meet her, but he was restrained by a sentiment found alike in curbstone-brokers and in charming young ladies—a feeling that it is not well to give one’s self away without first being sufficiently solicited to do so. He noticed, with a mingled pleasure and uneasiness, that little Alice did not at first recognize him, so greatly had his toilet altered his general appearance. Even after he made himself known, he was compelled to submit to further delay, for the party had come to the beach to bathe, and little Alice must bathe, too. She emerged from a bathing-house in a garb very odd to the eyes of Mr. Putchett, but one which did not at all change that gentleman’s opinion of the wearer. She ran into the water, was thrown down by the surf, she was swallowed by some big waves and dived through others, and all the while the veteran operator watched her with a solicitude, which, despite his anxiety for her safety, gave him a sensation as delightful as it was strange. The bath ended, Alice rejoined Mr. Putchett and conducted him to the spot where the wonderful shells with pink and yellow spots were found. The new shell-seeker was disgusted when the child shouted “Come along!” to several other children, and was correspondingly delighted when they said, in substance, that shells were not so attractive as once they were. Mr. Putchett’s researches in conchology were not particularly successful, for while he manfully moved about in the uncomfortable and ungraceful position peculiar to shell-seekers, he looked rather at the healthy, honest, eager little face near him than at the beach itself. Suddenly, however, Mr. Putchett’s opinion of shells underwent a radical change, for the child, straightening herself and taking something from her pocket, exclaimed: “Oh, dear, somebody’s picked up all the pretty ones. I thought, may be, there mightn’t be any here, so I brought you one; just see what pretty pink and yellow spots there are on it.” Mr. Putchett looked, and there came into his face the first flush of color that had been there—except in anger—for years. He had occasionally received presents from business acquaintances, but he had correctly looked at them as having been forwarded as investments, so they awakened feelings of suspicion rather than of pleasure. But at little Alice’s shell he looked long and earnestly, and when he put it into his pocket he looked for two or three moments far away, and yet at nothing in particular. “Do you have a nice boarding-house?” asked Alice, as they sauntered along the beach, stopping occasionally to pick up pebbles and to dig wells. “Not very,” said Mr. Putchett, the sanded barroom and his own rather dismal chamber coming to his mind.